INCLUDING 
YOU  AND  ME 


INCLUDING 
YOU  AND  ME 


BY 
STRICKLAND  GILLILAN 

Author  of 
"Including  Finnigin" 


CHICAGO 
FORBES  &  COMPANY 

1916 


Copyright,  1916,  by 
Forbes  and  Company 


DEDICATED  TO 

THE  SAME  LADY  MENTIONED  IN  MY  OTHER  BOOK 
WITH  THE  SAME  SENTIMENTS 


2129SRS 


Now  I  haven't  just  tried  to  be  "  funny" 
And  I  haven't  just  tried  to  be  " smart" 
Nor  yet  is  it  only  for  money  — 
*Tis  largely  a  matter  of  heart! 
Long  after  the  laughter  has  ended, 
Years  after  the  income  is  spent, 
May  the  laughs  and  the  loves  I  have  blended 
Still  deepen  some  human's  content. 


PREFACE 

The  more  than  kindly  reception  accorded 
my  other  collection  of  verses  ("Including 
Finnigin")  so  encouraged  my  publishers  that 
they  dared  to  produce  another  volume;  this 
time  excluding  the  piece  that  had  given  my 
stuff  its  first  vogue,  but  including  a  lot  of 
mighty  intimate  discussions  of  things  pertain- 
ing to  those  two  delightful  folks — you  and  me. 

(The  foregoing  is  a  longer  sentence  than  the 
one  beginning  the  preface  to  my  previous  book, 
but  you  know  the  second  offense  always  brings 
a  longer  sentence. ) 

One  time  there  was  a  prophet  (know  your 
Bible?)  who  was  sharply  scolded  for  presum- 
ing to  call  "common"  or  "unclean"  a  lot  of 
familiar,  every-day  things.  For  myself  I  have 
always  held  that  the  mere  fact  that  a  thing 
was  primitively  human,  and  well-known  by  all 
of  us,  was  not  just  for  that  necessarily  to  be 
treated  with  scorn  or  neglect.  That  very  com- 
monness (maybe  I'd  better  say  universality) 
made  the  thing,  in  my  stubborn  way  of  think- 


ing,  all  the  finer — made  it  a  sort  of  mental  and 
emotional  solder  to  weld  us  somewhat  cantank- 
erous humans  into  a  warm-hearted,  sympa- 
thetic brotherhood — the  pass-word  or  distress- 
sign  of  a  world-wide,  race-long  "lodge." 

So  that  is  the  sort  of  thing  I  have  handled  in 
the  verses  included  in  this  new  volume ;  and  it 
was  with  that  idea  imbedded  in  my  mind  and 
heart  that  I  wrote  them  in  the  first  place. 

I  hope  you'll  like  them ;  that  they  may  warm 
the  "cockles  of  your  heart"  and  make  you  feel 
closer  to  a  lot  of  folks  you  had  thought  inferior 
to  you.  And  I  also  humanly  hope  I've  ap- 
pealed to  your  vanity  enough,  by  telling  you 
things  you  already  knew,  to  make  you  clasp  the 
little  volume  more  closely  and  say  : 

"My,  that  fellow's  smart!  Why,  he  knows 
the  very  same  things  I  know !" 

STRICKLAND  GILLILAN. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  BABY'S  SORROW 142 

A  CONFIDENTIAL  PRAYER 134 

A  CONSOLATION    .     .• 136 

A  DEFI  TO  TROUBLE 154 

A  DISMAL  FAILURE 53 

A  DIXIE  LULLABY 65 

A  FACIAL  STUDY .  97 

AFTER  SCHOOL 21 

A  GENUINE  MAN 135 

A  HOPE  SONG 58 

A  HUMAN  HUNGER 125 

ALL  OF  Us 81 

ALONG  THE  EIVER 34 

A  MIDDLE-AGE  KEFLECTION 83 

"AND  SHUT  THY  DOOR" 123 

"ARE  You  THERE?" 133 

A  SAFE  PLAN 14 

ASLEEP  AMONG  His  TOYS 169 

A  SUMMER  OCCUPATION 155 

A  TALK  TO  THE  BOY       23 

BACK-FIRES 59 

BECOMING  A  MAN 103 

BEFORE — AND  THEN 149 

BEWARE! 137 

BOOK  FOR  ALL  TIME,  THE 117 

BOY  DREAMS 165 

BROTHER'S  FAULTS    ,                                               .  163 


Contents 

PAGE 

CHILDREN  ALL 164 

COMRADESHIP        157 

CONCENTRATION 160 

DAUGHTER 36 

EASIER  TASK,  THE 115 

ELDER  BROTHER,  THE 189 

ETERNAL  BEGINNING,  THE 112 

EVER  NEW,  THE 67 

EXCEPTION,  THE 119 

EYES 57 

FOLKS  NEED  A  LOT  OF  LOVING 19 

FORGETTING  THE  BOY 71 

"  FORGIVE  ME  " 127 

FUN  OF  LIVING,  THE 89 

GENERAL  STORE,  THE 109 

"  GET  TO  "  VERSUS  "  GOT  TO  " 41 

GET  UP  AND  Go  ON 55 

GOING  A  PIECE 190 

GREATEST  GIFT,  THE 35 

HARDENING  PROCESS,  THE 93 

HE  KNEW  MY  FATHER 49 

HIDDEN  PLAYMATES,  THE 105 

His  DOLLAR 161 

His  LITTLE  GIRL 39 

HUSBAND'S  INQUISITION,  THE 128 

INEXPRESSIBLE  LINCOLN,  THE 92 

IN  SIGHT  OF  HOME 37 

Is  IT  LONG? 124 

"  IT  DIDN'T  HURT  " 187 

"JUST  FINE" 74 

JUST  NOTHIN' 99 

KEENEST  PLEASURE,  THE 167 


Contents 

PAGE 

LIFE'S  ANESTHETIC 140 

LIFE'S  OTHER  DIMENSIONS 145 

LIFE'S  SMELTER 176 

LITTLE  LOCAL  TRAIN,  THE 51 

'LOWANCE,  THE 179 

MAN  OR  BABY 43 

MY  CHRISTMAS  SUPREME 69 

NEARER  LOVES,  THE 121 

NIGHTLY  TRANSFER,  THE 168 

"NOT  WORTH  FOOLING  WITH" 151 

ONE'S  OWN 75 

OUR  CAPACITY 63 

OUT  FOR  A  WALK 47 

PRECEDENT 173 

PUT  TO  THE  TEST 91 

RELATIVELY  SPEAKING 28 

KICE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY 177 

'BOUND  FATHER'S  GRIP 61 

"  SACREDNESS  "  OF  SOME  MOTHERHOOD,  THE  .     .     .  143 

SAYIN'  HOWDY 15 

SHE  HAS  HER  POINTS 78 

SHE  LIKES  TO  DRIVE 17 

SOMETHING  SWEET  TO  EEMEMBER 90 

SONG  OF  THE  FAMILY  MAN 116 

SONGS  OF  MEN,  THE 77 

SPORT 107 

STAIR-STEP  CHILDREN,  THE 183 

STRAWBERRY  MOUNTAINS 181 

THEIR  CHIEF  REGRET 25 

THEIR  HERITAGE 33 

THEN  AND  Now 146 

THIS  DAY  .     .  .131 


Contents 

PAGE 

THIS  Is  FINAL 20 

THOSE  NIGHTS  OP  BROKEN  SLEEP 130 

To  A  BABY  GIRL 129 

,To  A  WIFE 68 

To  THE  LOW-BROW 152 

TRIFLINGEST  JOB,  THE 101 

Two  WOMEN -. 171 

"UNBELIEVERS,"  THE 87 

UNCONSCIOUS  MISSIONARY,  THE 45 

UNIVERSAL  LESSON,  THE 147 

UNPARDONABLE 113 

VITAL  ACCOMPANIMENT,  THE 150 

WATCH  PICTURES 27 

WE  CAN  ALWAYS  LEARN 31 

WERE  I  WEALTHY 29 

WHAT  OF  YOUR  FIGHT  ? 95 

WHAT  VERDICT? 159 

WHEN  FATHER  COOKS 148 

WHAT  WE  PRAY  FOR 141 

WHEN  I  AM  WRONG 64 

WHEN  SATAN  WAS  PUZZLED 79 

WHEN  THE  KIDS  ARE  AWAY 85 

WHEN  WORK  Is  THROUGH 13 

"WORKING  Too  HARD" 188 

WORST  THING,  THE 48 

WHY  WE  Do  So , 73 

WIFEY'S  WAY 174 

WISE  MAN,  THE 185 

You  AND  ME  BOTH 22 

You  CAN'T  MISTAKE 42 

YOUNG-OLDS,  THE 139 


INCLUDING  YOU  AND  ME 


WHEN"  WOKK  IS  THROUGH 

WHAT  joy  to  have  some  honest,  self-support- 
ing work  to  do  — 
And  babes  to  run  and  meet  us  in  the  dusk  when 

we  are  through! 
Great  work,  that  helps  our  fellowman,  that  fills 

the  big  world's  need  — 
Some  work  that  serves  a  purpose  far  above  our 

human  greed  ! 
Just  that  I  want  —  with  honest  pay,  the  same  I 

wish  for  you  ; 
And  babes  to  run  and  meet  you  in  the  dusk  when 

work  is  through. 

There  may  be  higher  aims,  although  I  cannot  un- 

derstand 
Just  how  they  could  be  higher;  whether  soft  or 

calloused  hand 
Perform  the  task  assigned  by  Fate  and  kindly 

circumstance. 
'Tis  work  like  this  and  aims  like  this  that  make 

the  world  advance. 
The  pay  comes  thrice  —  food  for  your  brood,  joy 

in  the  work  you  do, 
And  babes  that  run  to  meet  you  in  the  dusk  when 

work  is  through. 

13 


A  SAFE  PLAN 

YOU  can't  go  wrong  in  this :    When  you  discern 
In  some  one's  work  or  life  a  clever  turn 
Or  worthy  deed,  go  to  him  and  declare 
Your  feelings  on  the  subject,  then  and  there. 
Don't  sit  around  and  whisper,  "  That  is  good !  " 
Go  say  it  —  make  your  pleasure  understood. 
Your  word  of  approbation  oft  may  come 
When  with  discouragement  his  heart  is  numb. 

Be  not  afraid  you'll  make  the  fellow  vain. 

If  in  his  skull  reside  a  trace  of  brain 

He  knows  enough  that  others  can  not  know 

About  his  weaknesses,  to  dull  the  glow 

Of  vaunting  pride  within  him.     So  your  word 

Of  cheer  will  come  as  song  of  springtime  bird 

To  winter-sick  humanity;  and  he 

Will  thank  his  God  for  you,  on  bended  knee. 

Go  to  the  worker,  praise  him  as  it  seems 
To  you  he  has  deserved.     And  then  his  dreams 
Will  grow  more  tangible.     His  strengthened  hand 
Take  on  the  touch  of  those  who  understand 
Themselves  and  their  full  power.     He  will  grow 
As  ne'er  he  could  have  grown  had  you  been  slow 
In  voicing  your  approval.     Shout  the  song 
Of   praise   you   think   deserved  —  you   can't   go 
wrong! 


SAYIN'  HOWDY 

SAYIN'  "Howdy,"  all  th'  day 
To  th'  folks  along  th'  way ! 
That's  the  method  he  pursued 
Whether  glum  or  glad  his  mood. 
Know  'em?     Not  by  face  or  name, 
But  he  knowed  'em  just  th'  same. 
Knowed  that  they  was  human  things 
Just  as  hoboes  are,  an'  kings. 

Sayin'  "  Howdy  "  when  he  met 
Josey  Smith,  as  black  as  jet, 
Sayin'  it  in  that  same  tone 
When  he  met  big  Sam  Malone, 
With  a  dozen  farms  or  so; 
Chucklin'  "  Sam's  as  good  as  Joe 
If  he's  careful  " —  just  that  way, 
Sayin'  "  Howdy,"  all  th'  day. 

"  When  I  git  t'  heaven,"  he  'lows, 

"  Where  they's  crowns  on  all  th'  brows, 

If  they's  any  that  kin  rise 

With  'is  right  hand  t'  th'  skies 

An'  declare  I  ever  rode 

'Long  apast  'im  on  th'  road 

An'  left  out  that  <  Howdy '  thing, 

I'll  give  up  my  crown,  by  jing!  " 

Sayin'  "Howdy,"  all  th'  day 
To  th'  folks  along  th'  way! 
15 


Him  nor  us  will  never  know 
How  he  helped  folks  down  below 
By  th'  friendliness  he  showed 
To  th'  folks  beside  th'  road. 
You  can't  find  no  better  way 
Than  just  Howdyin'  folks  all  day  I 


16 


SHE  LIKES  TO  DEIVE 

likes  to  drive.     We  go  out  in  the  sleigh 
And  ere  we've  gone  a  noticeable  way 
She  says :     "  Those  gloves  of  yours  are  awful 

thin  — 

Just  see  what  thick  ones  my  two  hands  are  in! 
You'd  better  let  me  drive  awhile  until 
You  get  your  hands  relieved  of  such  a  chill " — 
She  likes  to  drive. 

She  likes  to  drive.     And  when  I  (knowing  well 
Just  what  she  wants,  although  she  wouldn't  tell) 
Give  up  the  reins,  she  turns  the  horse's  head 
Into  some  road  whence  other  sleighs  have  fled ; 
And  then  one  runner  drops  into  a  ditch 
That  somehow  gives  her  lissome  form  a  pitch  — 
She  likes  to  drive. 

She  likes  to  drive.     And  on  that  lonely  way 
When  she,  to  keep  the  balance  of  the  sleigh, 
Has  bent  in  my  direction  —  don't  I  know, 
Or  am  I  bashful  still  and  shameful  slow? 
Then  —  then  she  gives  a  well-bred  little  shriek 
And  says :     "  Don't  —  that  leaves  wet  spots  on 
my  cheek  " — 

She  likes  to  drive. 

She  likes  to  drive.     No  matter  if  I  wear 
The  thickest  lamb's-wool  mittens,  she'll  declare 

17 


My  poor  hands  must  be  freezing;  and  she'll  take 
The  ribbons  from  my  grasp,  whereat  I  make 
No  murmur,  but  proceed  to  do  my  best 
To  please  the  maid  my  coldness  has  distressed  — 
She  likes  to  drive. 


18 


FOLKS  MED  A  LOT  OF  LOVING 

FOLKS  need  a  lot  of  loving  in  the  morning; 
The  day  is  all  before,  with  cares  beset  — 
The  cares  we  know,  and  those  that  give  no  warn- 
ing; 
For  love  is  God's  own  antidote  for  fret. 

Folks  need  a  heap  of  loving  at  the  noontime  — 
The   battle   lull,    the   moment   snatched   from 
strife  — 

Halfway  between  the  waking  and  the  croontime, 
While  bickering  and  worriment  are  rife. 

Folks  hunger  so  for  loving  at  the  nighttime, 
When  wearily  they  take  them  home  to  rest  — 

At  slumber-song  and  turning-out-the-light  time  — 
Of  all  the  times  for  loving,  that's  the  best ! 

Folks  want  a  lot  of  loving  every  minute  — 
The  sympathy  of  others  and  their  smile ! 

Till  life's  end,  from  the  moment  they  begin  it, 
Folks  need  a  lot  of  loving  all  the  while. 


19 


THIS  IS  FINAL 

WHEN"  you  are  a  fool,  you're  as  big  a  fool 
As  ever  the  other  fellow 
Appears  to  your  eyes  —  and  you  so  wise !  — 

When  his  cerebrum's  mellow. 
This  is  hard  to  say  in  a  pleasant  way, 

But  it's  genuine  information  — 
Just  tamp  that  down  in  your  calabash 
And  start  a  conflagration. 

When  you  are  wrong  you're  just  as  wrong 

As  the  biggest  fool  you  know 
When  he's  not  right  —  you  may  want  to  fight, 

But  this  statement's  got  to  go. 
I  liate  to  be  snippy  and  sassy  and  lippy 

To  one  in  your  dignified  station, 
But  shove  that  down  in  your  jimmy-pipe 

And  start  incineration. 

To  a  man  up  a  tree  you're  as  foolish  as  me, 

I'm  fallible  even  as  you. 
Every  self-centered  cuss  knows  he's  wiser  than  us, 

We'll  never  admit  that  it's  true. 
We  can  none  of  us  boast  who's  least  brainy  or  most. 

No  reason  for  self-gratulation. 
Let's  put  that  down  in  our  clay  dudeens 

And  start  a  conflagration. 


20 


AFTER  SCHOOL 

WHEN  home  from  school's  long  day  he 
drifts 

And  to  my  gaze  his  fresh  face  lifts, 
I  read  the  tale  of  all  the  joys 
And  sorrows  that  are  every  boy's  — 
I  knew  them  once.     I  feel  them  yet, 
Through  later  living's  deeper  fret. 
But  still  I  hold  him  close,  and  say 
"  Son,  tell  me  all  about  your  day." 

He  tells  me  —  whimpering  o'er  each  grief, 

And  laughing  next  in  swift  relief : 

The  big,  bad  boy  who  hid  his  hat ; 

The  girl  who  slipped  from  where  she  sat, 

To  meet  with  Teacher's  well-earned  frown ; 

And  how  the  littlest  boy  fell  down ! 

I  list  —  not  that  I  do  not  know, 

But  only  that  I  love  him  so. 

When,  at  life's  troublous  school  day's  close, 
Each  world-worn  pupil  homeward  goes, 
Straight  to  the  Father's  eyes  we'll  raise 
Our  own,  prepared  for  blame  or  praise. 
He'll  slip  an  arm  around,  and  say : 
"  Child,  tell  me  all  about  your  day." 
"Not  that  Our  Father  does  not  know, 
But  only  that  He  loves  us  so. 


21 


YOU  AND  ME  BOTH 

I  HAVE  a  lot  of  grievous  faults. 
My  pilgrim  way  is  filled  with  halts 
And  limps  and  stoppings  by  the  road. 
When  discipline  applies  her  goad 
I  wince.     I  often  note  (with  grief 
That  holds  no  prospect  of  relief 
Through  future  mornings,  nights  and  noons) 
That  every  one  is  full  of  prunes, 
Including  me.     But  I  cheer  up 
And  feel  joy  brimming  in  my  cup 
When  I  look  closer  still  and  see 
How  patient  I  have  been  with  me ! 

I  know  of  none  from  whom  I  would 

So  much  of  foolishness  have  stood, 

As  I  have  daily  borne  when  I 

Was  the  offender.     Should  I  try, 

I  could  not  take  from  others  what 

I've  stood  from  me,  without  a  swat 

On  the  offender's  eye  or  nose. 

You'd  find  it  hard  to  presuppose 

How  many  things  I  can  excuse 

Whene'er  the  miscreant  wears  my  shoes. 

'Twould  make  old  Job  seem  peeved,  to  see 

How  patient  I  can  be  with  me ! 


22 


A  TALK  TO  THE  BOY 

COME,  boy,  to  your  dad.     Let  me  tell  you 
some  things 

Of  the  man  who  loved  me  as  I'm  now  loving  you. 
For  the  heart  is  a  pendulum,  heavy,  that  swings 

Aye  forward  and  back,  as  all  pendulums  do. 
And  tonight,  mine  has  swung  far  away  to  the  time 
When  your  dad  had  a  dad  —  just  as  you  have, 

my  son ; 

A  dad  to  whose  arms  I  was  welcome  to  climb 
When  his  day  in  the  cornfield  or  meadow  was 
done. 


I  crept  into  arms  that  were  stronger,  my  lad ; 
And  his  hands  —  O,  so  tender !  —  were  harder 

than  mine. 
For  the  world  had  been  harsh  with  the  dad  of  your 

dad. 

Yet  I  wish  that  my  soul  were  as  gentle  and  fine 
As  the  one  roughly  clad  in  that  body  of  his 

That  so  lavishly  gave  of  its  strength  for  the  one 
Who  now  shelters  you.     And  my  prayer's  burden 

is 
That  you  may  think  thus  of  your  father,  my  son. 

What  I've  gained,  I  have  gained ;  his  the  heavier 

cost. 

He,  in  embryo,  held  all  the  things  I  have  done. 
23 


Yet  I  fear  —  gravely  fear  there  are  things  I  have 
lost 

That  sadly  diminish  the  triumph,  my  son. 
So  lie  close,  little  man;  there's  so  little  we  know 

Except  that  I  love  you  and  you  can  love  me. 
And  I  smile  with  content  that  you're  loving  me  so, 

And  am  glad  in  that  love,  as  my  dad  used  to  be. 


24 


THEIR  CHIEF  REGRET 

WE  wan't  such  a  gloomy  bunch  o'  guys,  an' 
we  didn't  dwell  on  fret, 
But  for  some  fool  notion  or  other,  why  we  called 

it  Camp  Regret. 
Whether  'twas  'cause  we  was  middle-aged  an'  our 

eye-teeth  cut,  or  whether 
We'd  a  bitter  streak  when  we  named  it,  we  all  of 

us,  hell  for  leather, 
Tuck  up  with  th'  name,  an'  it  stuck.     One  night 

when  we  all  set  'round  th'  fire 
An*  each  was  doin'  heavy  work  to  prove  him  th' 

biggest  liar, 
Jim  Marshall  says :     "  I  wonder  what,  as  we've 

roamed  from  coast  to  coast, 
Us  old  sour  doughs  has  ever  done  that  we  regret 

th'  most." 

I  bet  for  seven  minutes  or  more  they  wasn't  a  guy 

that  spoke. 
I  can't  remember  which  of  th'  boys  that  age-long 

silence  broke. 
And  th'  tales  that  follered  —  not  one  of  th'  lads 

had  loosened  so  much  before. 
I  reckon  one  of  you  writer  chaps  would  'a'  got  a 

hefty  store 
O'  stuff  fer  th'  tales  you  write  an'  sell  if  you  could 

'a'  been  around, 
But  they  wouldn't  V  told  th'  yarns  they  told  had  a 

stranger  face  been  found 
25 


About  th'  fire.     An'  when  they  was  done,  one 

feller  spoke  again 
An'  said:     "We've  none  of  us  hit  th'  mark,  or 

I'm  no  judge  of  men." 

Then  all  agreed  they  would  write  it  down,  their 

chieftest-of-all  regret. 
An'  we  passed  a  pencil  and  paper  'round  to  each 

of  us,  as  we  set, 
An'  every  feller  wrote  it  out  —  th'  thing  he  was 

sorriest  of, 
Of  all  the  things  in  all  his  life  of  hardship,  hate 

and  love. 
And  when  they  was  wrote,  we  gathered  'em  —  was 

none  of  'em  to  be  signed ; 

Jim  Marshall  read  'em  aloud  to  us  with  'is  eye 

that  wasn't  blind. 
An'  every  feller  had  penned  th'  same  an'  these 

here  words  was  it: 
"  I  wish  I'd  wrote  to  mother,  more,  while  she  was 

livin'  yit." 


WATCH  PICTURES 

I'D  show  the  photograph  I  wear 
Inside  my  watch,  did  I  not  care 
What  happened  next.     But  if  I  did 
He'd  pull  the  picture  of  his  kid 
Or  wife  on  me,  and  start  to  tell 
A  lot  of  guff  I  know  so  well  — 
How  can  a  man  so  thoughtless  be 
When  I'd  discourse  of  Mine  and  me? 

I  wear  a  picture  in  my  watch  — - 
A  reg'lar  picture;  not  a  botch! 
It  is  a  picture  of  my  frau 
When  she  was  younger  far  than  now. 
I  show  the  thing  to  other  men 
Who,  if  I  do  not  leave  just  then, 
Pull  something  of  the  kind  on  me, 
Though  why  they  do  so  I  can't  see. 

I've  learned  to  pick  and  choose  my  time 
For  pulling  off  this  watch-case  crime. 
I  wait  until  my  train  has  blown 
For  whate'er  stop  I  call  my  own, 
Then  show  the  picture  quick;  and  run 
Before  the  other's  deed  is  done. 
A  deathless  mystery  it  is  — 
Why  he  should  wish  to  show  me  his ! 


RELATIVELY  SPEAKING 

MY  name  is  Spink.     Wher'er  I  go 
Some  one  inquires  if  or  no 
I  am  related  to  the  Spink 
Who  used  to  live  at  Spotted  Mink, 
Four  miles  beyond  the  Harwood  place  — 
Some  day  I'll  push  somebody's  face 
For  taking  up  my  time  to  grin 
And  start  with,  "  Are  you  any  kin  ?  " 

I  know  the  look  that  creeps  into 

The  human  eye  when  he  gets  through 

Having  my  name  repeated  to  him 

And  when  the  name  at  last  gets  through  him 

I  see  the  question  coming  out 

From  his  garrulous  social  spout : 

"  Spink,  Spink  —  I  know  Hank  Spink,  an' 

Min— - 
I  wonder  if  you're  any  kin." 

And  then,  no  matter  how  I  say 
I'm  not,  I  can't  head  off  this  jay. 
He'll  go  on  naming  Spinks  to  me 
And  scrambling  'round  my  family  tree 
To  show  me  he's  a  knowing  guy. 
Some  day  I'll  bash  him  in  the  eye 
And  soak  him  on  the  fatuous  grin 
For  asking :     "  Are  you  any  kin  ?  " 


28 


WERE  I  WEALTHY 

WERE  I  a  wealthy  citizen 
I'd  help  the  worthy  poor 
Who  daily  cudgel  off  the  wolf 
That  lingers  'round  the  door. 
I'd  feed  the  hungry,  heal  the  sick, 

I'd  clothe  the  naked,  too ; 
There'd  hardly  be  an  end  to  all 
The  kindly  things  I'd  do. 

Were  I  a  wealthy  citizen 

I'd  take  each  orphan  chick 
And  send  him  to  the  finest  school  - 

I'd  do  that  mighty  quick. 
I'd  say  to  worried  widows  who 

Could  see  no  light  ahead 
"  Fear  not,  for  I'll  protect  you  all  — 

Think  not  that  hope  is  dead." 

Were  I  a  wealthy  citizen 

I'd  seek  out  struggling  youths 
Who  fought  'gainst  Penury  to  gain 

Fair  Learning's  hidden  truths. 
I'd  let  them  go  through  college  till 

They  reached  the  outfield  fence 
And  not  one  dollar  should  they  pay 

'Twould  be  at  my  expense. 

Were  I  a  wealthy  citizen 

(Let's  deal  with  facts  a  while) 
29 


I'd  lie  awake  at  nights  and  scheme 
How  to  increase  my  pile. 

I'd  sit  around  on  Easy  street 
And  plan  and  plan  and  plan 

A  hundred  other  brand-new  ways 
To  skin  my  fellow  man. 


30 


WE  CAtf  ALWAYS  LEAKN 

NO  man  is  wholly  foolish,  just  as  none  is  wholly 
wise; 
The  world  has  precious  few  extremes,  you'll  find 

if  you'll  examine. 
The  man  who's  partly  deaf,  you'll  note,  has  extra 

useful  eyes  — 
This  "wholly  helpless"  notion  is  the  plainest 

sort  of  gammon. 

You  hear  a  fellow  work  his  mouth  from  morn- 
ing's break  till  night, 
You're  sure  he's  saying  nothing,  you  condemn 

him  without  ruth. 
But  listen  patiently  to  him  —  his  chatter  is  a 

fright, 

But  'mid  the  rubbish  he  emits  you'll  find  some 
grains  of  truth. 

There's  none  so  big  a  fool  but  that  he  knows  some 

things  that  you 
Or  even  I  could  scarce  find  out  in  all  our  life  or 

longer. 
There's  none  so  wise  but  if  you  probe  his  depths 

an  hour  or  two, 
You'll  see  a  lot  of  little  points  on  which  he 

might  be  stronger. 
So   you,   though   you   be   foolish  —  yes,    and   I, 

though  I  be  wise !  — 

Had  best  leave  off  in  later  years  the  rashness  of 
our  youth 

31 


And  learn  to  listen  even  when  the  pinhead's  spin- 
drift flies  — 

Amid  the  chaff  his  voice  gives  forth  will  be  some 
grains  of  truth. 


THEIR  HERITAGE 

THE  lovings  that  we  used  to  get, 
The  dreams  that  came  before  life's  fret, 
The  pleasures  once  we  held  so  dear 
Before  the  yellow  leaf  and  sere 
And  other  things  accounted  drear  — 
The  children  have  them  now. 

The  rosy  cheeks  we  used  to  wear, 
The  daily  thrills  ere  came  our  care, 
The  coastings  down  the  snowy  hill 
With  juvenile,  uncanny  skill 
And  now  and  then  a  joyous  spill  — 
The  children  get  them  now. 

The  heartaches  over  little  things, 

The  hurts  from  playmates'  thoughtless  flings, 

The  checkings  of  each  grown-up  boss, 

Who  must  scold  some  one  when  he's  cross, 

The  spankings  —  who  could  count  them  loss?- 

The  children  get  them  now. 
Thank  goodness! 

The  children  have  them  now. 


33 


ALONG  THE  KIVER 

DAYS  along  the  river  are  the  days  you  can't 
forget ! 

There  you  lose  your  worries  and  there  you  fling 
your  fret. 

Days  along  the  river  when  the  sun  is  shining 
warm, 

When  the  air's  so  balmy  that  you  couldn't  think 
of  storm; 

When  the  pink  spring  beauties  and  the  yellow  vio- 
lets 

Make  a  fellow  glad  as  any  fellow  ever  gets; 

Dreamy  plash  and  gurgle  as  the  ripples  slumber 
by- 

Days  along  the  river  'neath  a  young  May  sky! 

Days  along  the  river  where  the  stream  runs 
slow  — 

You  must  watch  the  ripples  to  see  which  way  they 
flow. 

Picking  muddy  driftwood  and  drying  it  for  fire  — 

Down  along  the  river  is  the  Land  of  Heart's  De- 
sire. 

Miracles  are  'round  you  and  you  feel  that  you 
have  found 

Nature  in  her  workshop;  where  the  alchemistic 
ground 

Vies  with  magic  weather  in  the  wondrous  feats 
you  see  — 

Down  along  the  river  is  the  place  for  you  and  me ! 

34 


TT  wasn't  the  money  you  gave  the  chap 
:        When  you  found  him  down  and  out  — 
'Twas  the  faith  you  restored  when  you  bettered  his 

hap 
That  had  filled  him  with  bitter  doubt. 

It  wasn't  the  food  that  your  money  bought, 

Or  the  clothes  he  had  needed  so, 
But  the  spirit  change  that  your  kindness  wrought 

When  you  set  hope's  lamp  aglow. 

It  isn't  the  human  of  blood  and  bone 
Served  most  when  you  heed  love's  call  — — 

'Tis  a  human  heart  just  like  your  own; 
It  hungers  most  of  all. 


35 


DAUGHTER 

COOK  has  quit  and  mother's  cleaning  off  the 
kitchen  shelf; 
Shelf  is  high  and  mother's  short  —  has  to  stretch 

herself. 
After  she  has  done  with  that,  the  pantry  must  be 

swept  — 
One  would  think  the  cook  forgot  where  the  broom 

was  kept. 
After  that  she'll  take  the  stuff  from  the  ice-box 

stalls, 
Wash  it  out  and  put  things  back ;  roll  some  butter 

balls, 
Beat  some  eggs  and  whip  some  cream  and  bake 

the  Sunday  pies  — 
Daughter's  at  gymnasium,  taking  exercise ! 

Last    week,    when    the    housemaid    left,    mother 
cleaned  the  rugs  — 

Got  the  big  ones  on  the  line  after  many  tugs ; 

Waxed  the  hardwood  living  room,  pulled  the  heavy 
weight 

Of  that  big  lead  polisher  —  lunch  made  daughter 
late 

Getting  to  the  downtown  place  where  the  classes 
meet 

3Tor  the  calisthenics  that  will  put  her  on  her  feet. 

Seems  to  Ma  a  husky  girl  with  observant  eyes 

Might  not  have  to  leave  her  home  for  some  exer- 
cise. 

36 


SIGHT  OF  HOME 

ALL  day  I  wander  blithesomely  adown  each 
roadway  turn; 
I  seek  new  pastures  restlessly  and  ramble  on 

and  on. 
But  as  the  red  sun  westers  down,  I  feel  the  primal 

yearn 

To  be  in  sight  of  home  again  before  the  light  is 
gone. 

The  distant  hilltop  lures  my  feet,  I  hunger  for 

its  view ; 
What  lies  beyond  the  darkling  wood  —  I  needs 

must  run  and  see. 
All  day  I  bravely  plunge  ahead  in  search  of  vistas 

new, 

But  when  the  twilight  comes,  my  home  calls 
lovingly  to  me. 

Twilight  and  home  are  comrade  things  —  would 

they  might  always  meet ! 
My  heart  breaks  every  evening  when  I  cannot 

see  my  own. 
The  trip,  the  crowd,  the  stranger  voice  through 

all  the  day  are  sweet, 

But  dusk  brings  on  the  sorrow  that  I  needs  must 
bear  alone. 


37 


When,  after  life's  long  journey  ings,  your  sun  slips 

gently  down 
The  copper-burnished  western  sky  and  there's  a 

hint  of  gloam, 
May  you  not  see  the  stranger  hill  or  wood  before 

you  frown  — 

May  life's  sweet  evening  shadows  find  your  soul 
in  sight  of  Home! 


38 


HIS  LITTLE  GIKL 

SHE  brought  his  dinner  to  him  every  day 
He  worked  upon  the  job.     An  old  tin  pail 
Was  what  she  brought  it  in  and  took  away 
After  he'd  emptied  it  from  base  to  bail. 

She  always  wore  an  old  sunbonnet  —  blue, 

With  white  checks  on  it.     You  could  see  her 
stop 

And  look  each  way  until  she  fully  knew 
No  train  was  coming;  then  she'd  madly  pop 

Across  the  tracks,  as  if  old  Nick  pursued, 

And  walk  up,  grinning  at  Ted  Burke  —  her 
pa  — 

Old  Ted,  who  never  was  what's  called  a  dude, 
And  looked  as  plain  as  any  other  "  chaw." 

That  is,  to  us  he  seemed  like  common  clay; 

But  not  to  her !     That  kid  would  stand  and  look 
At  Ted  as  if  he  were  the  Queen  of  May, 

And  lovely  as  a  picture  in  a  book. 

One  day  she  didn't  come  to  bring  his  lunch. 

The  next  Ted  asked  to  be  let  off  awhile. 
He  stayed  so  long  we  others  got  a  hunch 

That  maybe  something5  d  happened  to  the  smile 


39 


Beneath  the  bonnet.     And  when  he  came  back 
To  work  one  morning,  with  his  pail  in  hand, 

And  with  his  hat  band  bound  about  with  black  — 
We  didn't  have  to  ask,  to  understand. 


40 


"  GET  TO  "  VEKSUS  "  GOT  TO  " 

PERHAPS  no  other  words  so  much  alike 
Upon  so  many  opposites  may  strike. 
Upon  their  slight  grammatic  difference 
Depend  a  lot  of  things  that  give  offense 
And  cause  deep  disagreement  between  those 
Who  elsewise  would  agree  like  bee  and  rose. 

For  instance,  farmers  think  the  engineers 

"  Get  to  "  ride  on  the  cars,  long  years  on  years. 

The  engineer,  within  his  smoke-filled  cab, 

Roars  past  the  granger  and  exclaims,  "By  grab! 

He  gets  to  live  out  in  the  fresh,  sweet  soil 

And  not  breathe  coal  dust,  soot  and  reeking  oil." 

While  of  his  job  the  farmer  thinks  he's  "  got  to  " 
Do  things  the  engineer's  job  tells  him  not  to, 
So  he  who  runs  the  locomotive  knows 
He's  "  got  to  "  tear  along  those  twin  steel  rows 
Till  death  or  pensioned  leisure  bids  him  quit  — 
"  Get  to  "  and  "  got  to  "  aren't  alike,  a  bit. 

Wife  thinks  that  hubby  "  gets  to  "  roam  around 
Away  from  home  where  pleasing  scenes  are  found. 
Hubby  well  knows  he's  "  got  to  "  do  the  thing 
That  can't  be  done  without  his  taking  wing 
From  that  loved  home  where  wif  ey  "  gets  to  "  stay 
Though  she  thinks  "  got  to  "  all  the  livelong  day. 


41 


YOU  CAN'T  MISTAKE 

IF,  when  you  walk  into  a  little  room 
Where  sit  some  niggard  souls  in  chosen  gloom, 
You  note  a  furtive  look  and  lowered  voice 
Proving  your  presence  is  not  of  their  choice  — 
And  if  you  catch  at  one  strong  word  of  blame, 
No  matter  if  your  ear  have  missed  the  name, 
There'll  be  no  error  credited  to  you 
If  you  state  calmly,  "  Sirs,  that  is  not  true." 

Nine  cases  out  of  ten  they  have  no  proof 

Of  what  they  say;  the  warp  and  e'en  the  woof 

May  be  false  utterly ;  and  they  may  be 

Besmirching  one  far  worthier  than  we  — 

Destroying  that  they  can  not  build  anew. 

So  take  a  chance  and  say,  "  That  is  not  true." 

Aye  when  you  hear  a  brother's  name  denied 
With  accusations  damning,  proofless,  wild, 
Defend,  though  blindly.     God  Himself  would  say 
A  good  word  for  the  worst  of  men,  today. 
For  if  the  man  be  guilty  of  some  wrong  — 
Let  him  that's  sinless  criticise  this  song !  — 
The   more   he   needs   some   friend   that's   truest 

blue  — 
Be  that  one  friend,  and  say,  "  That  is  not  true." 


MAN  OR  BABY? 

ALL  of  our  talk  is  of  engines  and  horses  and 
lions  and  fires; 
All  of  our  thoughts  are  a  man's  thoughts,  while 

he's  so  broad  awake ; 

All  of  our  ways  are  a  man's  ways,  all  that  tradi- 
tion requires; 
But    Nature  —  the    tyrant !  —  is    certain    her 

merciless  toll  to  take. 
For  when  he  is  sleepy  we're  nothing  but  a  poor 

little  bit  of  a  thing 
With  a  father  as  foolish  as  fathers  have  been 

since  the  world  began. 
So  I  jealously  hold  him  and  rock  him  and  Slum- 

berland  melodies  sing  — 

When  he's  asleep  he's  a  baby,  though  when  he's 
awake  he's  a  man! 

Just  at  the  age  when  the  man-child  would  fain  lay 

his  babyhood  down  — 
Call  him  "  a  baby  " —  you've  hurt  him  past 

power  of  surgeon  to  heal. 
Learning  the  grownuppish  swagger,  learning  the 

swashbuckler's  frown, 
Trying  to  act  as  a  man  acts,  to  feel  as  the  grown 

ones  feel; 
Stretching  his  stride  to  its  utmost,  proud  to  keep 

step  with  his  dad! 
Scorning  to  show  emotion,  aeons  too  ancient  to 


weep! 


43 


But  !KTight,  no  respecter  of  persons,  refuses  to 

humor  the  lad  — 
He's  a  man  when  awake,  but,  God  bless  him, 

he's  a  baby  when  he  is  asleep  — 
The  thing  that  makes  parents  love-mad  — • 
Just  a  wee,  helpless  babe,  when  asleep. 


44 


THE  UNCONSCIOUS  MISSIONARY 


o 


NE  time  I  knowed  a  feller  't  didn't  claim  to 

be  no  saint  — 
JYhich  some  o'  them  as  claims  they  are  knows 

mighty  well  they  ain't  — 
An'  ev'ry  time  I  left  him,  as  o'  course  I  often 

would, 
He'd  give  my  hand  a  squeeze  an'  say,  "  Good-bye, 

my  boy.     Be  good." 

He  said  it  kind  o'  j  aunty-like,  as  if  he  didn't  keer, 
But  somehow  what  that  feller  said  kep'  ringin'  in 

my  ear; 
An'  ev'ry  step  I  tuck  fer  half  a  mile  f'm  where 

we'd  stood 
Them  words  kep'  up  'ith  me  an'  said,  "  Be  good, 

be  good,  be  good." 

An'  all  th'  hull  day  at  my  work  in  meetin'  up  'ith 

men, 
When  I'd  a  chance  to  do  some  dirt,  I'd  think  a 

minute  —  then 
Like  some  fool  tune  ye  can't  f ergit,  but  al'ys  wisht 

ye  could, 
Them  words  'd  come  a-limpin'  'long,  "Be  good, 

be  good,  be  good." 

Some  blame  loud  preachin's  hit  me  like  th'  water 

hits  a  duck, 
An*  if  some  preachers  fished  fer  me  they've  had 

tarnation  luck; 

45 


But  that  plain  sinner's  made  me  be  lots  nearder 

what  I  should 
By  al'ys  saying  keerless  like,  "  Be  good,  my  boy, 

be  good." 


46 


OUT  FOE  A  WALK 

MY  tiny  son  walks  out  with  me 
Along  the  sweet  suburban  road  — 
Has  many  a  cheery  scout  with  me 

While  chattering  our  own  love  code; 
He  finds  a  reddened  leaf  perchance, 

A  gaudy  butterfly's  lost  wing, 
A  stone  from  which  the  sun  rays  glance, 
Or  some  such  childish-cherished  thing. 

All  these  he  bears  to  me  and  places 

Within  my  hand  (as  I  have  halted 
To  reconcile  our  varied  paces), 

And  says  with  look  and  tone  exalted: 
"  See,  Father,  what  I  found  back  there ; 

You  missed  it  when  you  sauntered  by; 
Your  big,  strong  hand  takes  better  care 

Of  these  —  my  treasures  —  than  can  I." 

We  are  but  children,  walking  out 

With  Father.     All  the  things  we  find  — 
Gems  now,  but  later  viewed  with  doubt  — 

We  bear  to  Him,  love  —  strong  and  kind, 
And  say :  "  These  big,  safe  hands  of  Thine 

Can  take  much  better  care  than  we 
Of  these  —  our  treasures  —  rare  and  fine ; 

JVe  trust,  dear  God,  our  all  with  Thee !  " 


THE  WOEST  THING 

FAILURE,  when  you  have  done  your  best,  is 
bad. 

I  know  a  thing  a  thousand  times  as  sad : 
The  sting  that  failure  leaves  within  your  breast  — 
ATI  ache  that  knows  no  surcease,  gives  no  rest  — 
When  you  recall  you  did  not  do  your  best. 


48 


HE  KNEW  MY  FATHER 

look  of  him  was  wholly  commonplace  — 
•••    His    grizzled    beard,    worn    garments,    fur- 
rowed face. 

It  wanted  all  my  life-learned  poise  to  keep 
Suppressed  an  adverse  note  that  strove  to  creep 
Into  my  judgment  as  I  viewed  the  man, 
So  shaped  he  seemed  on  utter  failure's  plan. 
His  was  the  seldom-traveler's  furtive  look, 
Cowering  uneasy  in  his  red-plush  nook. 

To  me  at  length  for  friendliness  he  turned ; 

For  human  fellowship  this  lone  man  yearned. 

I  humored  his  pathetic  eagerness 

To  know  my  name,  my  calling,  my  address. 

"  Your   father's   name  ? "    He   trembled    as   he 

spoke ; 

And  when  I  told  him,  o'er  his  features  broke 
A  look  of  satisfaction  deep  and  sweet 
As  if  I'd  made  his  cup  of  joy  replete. 

"I  knowed  your  pap  —  why,  him  an'  me  was 

chums ! " 

And  then  I  knew  the  happiness  that  comes 
To  every  father-hungry  grown-up  lad 
Who  never  ceases  longing  for  the  dad 
So  little  understood  in  callow  days  — 
So  quick  to  blame  he  seemed,  so  slow  to  praise ; 
So  wished-for  now,  when  wisdom  holds  her  throne, 
That  for  our  disrespect  we  might  atone! 

49 


About  that  head,  erstwhile  so  commonplace, 
A  halo  formed,  of  glory  and  of  grace. 
He'd  known  and  loved  the  father  I  had  known; 
As  hoy  friends  intimate  the  two  had  grown; 
I  clung  to  him  —  I  all  but  held  his  hand, 
This  magic  guest  from  an  enchanted  land. 
Now  with  a  thrill  his  voice  in  memory  comes : 
"  I  knowed  your  pap  —  why,  him  an'  me  was 
chums ! " 


50 


THE  LITTLE  LOCAL  TRAIN 

T  THRILL  and  gape  at  limiteds,  close-vestibuled 
*          clean  through ; 

I  marvel  at  their  majesty,  as  other  people  do. 
I  goggle  at  the  high-backed  hog  with  smoke-stack 

like  a  wart; 
That  makes  bystanders  jump  and  dodge  to  hear 

her  starting  snort; 
She's  splendor  from  her  tail-lights  to  the  bo  that's 

riding  blind; 
But,  oh,  the  local  train  that  serves  the  lowly  of 

mankind ! 

A  bunty  thing  she  is,  of  course,  with  just  two 

coaches  on  — 
And  one  of  them  half  baggage.     But  the  poor 

folks  know  the  "  con," 
And  chat  with  him  and  "  braky,"  calling  them  by 

Christian  name  — 
The  limited's  a  hummer,  but  she's  loser  in  the 

game! 
Far  better  than  her  brass-railed  perch  for  wealthy 

folks,  behind, 
I  love  the  local  train  that  serves  the  poorer  of 

mankind ! 

Past  everything  but  county-seats  —  e'en  missing 

some  of  them  — 
The  limited  goes  whirling  by  upon  the  big  "  main 

stem ; " 

51 


She  busts  the  village  ordinance  that  says,  "  Ten 

miles  an  hour ;  " 
Just  hoots  derisive  at  such  burgs  and  puts  on  extra 

power. 
The  town  the  local  hurries  through  would  sure  be 

hard  to  find  — 
The  little  local  run  that  serves  the  humbler  of 

mankind. 

The  trippers  on  the  limited  have  tickets  that  have 

cost 
A  score  or  more  of  dollars  —  why,  a  state  or  so 

they've  crossed! 
The  local  carries  shabby  folks  with  fifteen  cents  to 

spend, 
But  theirs  is  just  as  big  a  trip  —  has  starting, 

middle,  end! 
The  limited's  the  classy  string ;  but  greater,  in  my 

mind, 
The  two-coach  local  train  that  serves  the  plainer 

of  mankind. 


52 


A  DISMAL  FAILURE 

1  TRIED  to  be  unhappy,  for  a  girl  had  jilted 
me; 

I  tried  to  be  unhappy  —  being  less  would  cruel  be ; 

But  a  southern  wind  was  blowing  and  my  break- 
fast had  been  good  — 

A  southern  wind  was  blowing  and  the  birds  sang 
in  the  wood. 

The  sun  was  shining  brightly  and  the  day  was 
sweet  and  mild  — 

I  tried  to  be  unhappy,  but  was  gladsome  as  a  child ! 

I  tried  to  be  unhappy,  for  my  fortune  had  been 

lost; 
I'd  had  to  sell  my  earthly  goods  for  less  than  they 

had  cost. 
I  tried  to  be  unhappy,  for  the  kind  world  pitied 

me 
And   wondered   if    another   pleasant   moment   I 

should  see. 
I  tried  to  be  unhappy,  but  as  I  approached  my 

house 
My  laughing  baby  met  me  and  we  held  a  wild 

carouse ! 

I  tried  to  be  unhappy  when  upon  my  temple 

gleamed 
The  first  white  hair  of  middle  age  —  how  lesa  than 

I  had  dreamed 

53 


Were  life's  rewards!     And  then  I  thought  how 

richly  I  was  blest 
To  have  the  wife  and  bairns  about  as  I  approached 

the  west. 
I  laughed  aloud,  unblushingly,  and  caroled  forth 

my  glee  — 
I've  tried  to  be  unhappy,  but  have  failed  most 

dismally ! 


54 


GET  UP  A:ND  GO 

YOUR  wee  foot  slipped  on  the  floor,  my  son ; 
Get  up  and  go  on! 
Your  game  of  tag  is  far  from  done  — 

Get  up  and  go  on, 

That  dimpled  knee  got  an  awful  hurt  — 
See  the  roughed-up  skin  and  the  ground-in  dirt! 
But  you're  good  for  a  stronger,  swifter  spurt  — 
Get  up  and  go  on. 

Sometimes  there  are  terrible  bruises,  lad, 

But  get  up  and  go  on. 
And  your  father's  arms  —  if  it's  quite  too  bad 

To  get  up  and  go  on  — 
Will  gather  you  close  and  gently  say : 
"  There,  there !     Has  it  spoiled  the  baby's  play  ?  " 
But  you'll  find  in  the  end  that  the  better  way 

Is  "  get  up  and  go  on." 

All  through  your  life  it  will  be  the  same. 

Get  up  and  go  on. 
Grin  over  your  pain  and  play  the  game  — 

Get  up  and  go  on. 

For  folk  will  watch  when  your  falls  take  place  — 
Will  watch  the  expression  on  your  face 
And  accurately  will  adjudge  your  case, 

So  get  up  and  go  on. 

And  whenever  the  fall  too  cruel  seems 
To  get  up  and  go  on, 
55 


When  hope  has  hidden  its  faintest  gleams, 

Get  up  and  go  on! 

And  the  arms  of  the  Father-who-knows-what's-best 
Will  hold  you  close  to  a  loving  breast 
Till  your  baffled  soul  finds  strength  in  rest  — 

Get  up  and  go  on! 


56 


EYES 

GIVE  me  back  the  boy  eyes, 
The  seeing-naught-but-joy  eyes, 
The  pleasure-cannot-cloy  eyes, 

With  which  I  used  to  see. 
Take  away  these  old  eyes, 
Give  back  the  boyhood-bold  eyes, 
The  all-that-gleams-is-gold  eyes, 
That  brought  such  bliss  to  me. 

Oh,  to  have  the  clear  eyes, 

The  naught-in-sight-that's-drear  eyes, 

The  never-shed-a-tear  eyes, 

That  served  me  as  a  boy ! 
Give  me  back  the  bright  eyes, 
The  every-soul-is-white  eyes, 
The  things-must-come-out-right  eyes, 

That  brought  me  only  joy. 

"No  —  most  I  love  the  dim  eyes, 
The  let-him-have-his-whim  eyes, 
The  oft-with-tears-aswim  eyes, 

Of  age's  gentler  heart. 
I'd  rather  have  the  kind  eyes, 
The  helped-out-with-the-mind  eyes, 
Than  any  boyhood's  blind  eyes 

That  only  saw  in  part  I 


57 


A  HOPE  SONG 

rtlHE  clouds  were  red  when  the  dawn  came  up  — 
•••        Were  red  with  a  glint  of  copper  sheen. 
The  chalice  of  morn  was  a  glittering  cup 

And  the  world  was  gay  in  the  dewy  green. 
But  the  sun  rose  high  and  the  clouds  grew  gray 

With  only  a  softened  silver  glow. 
And  the  world  looked  old  and  far  from  gay, 

But  burdened  instead  with  a  weight  of  woe. 

Yet  at  night  when  the  sun  goes  down  again 

In  the  ruddy  west,  we  shall  see  once  more 
The  gold  and  the  glitter  past  tongue  or  pen, 

Shall  see  the  red  of  the  dawn  —  and  more ! 
Our  lives  and  our  days  are  alike  in  this: 

Both  have  their  glorious  morns,  then  come 
The  gray  and  the  grime  that  we  may  not  miss, 

Till  hope  shines  forth  in  the  evening's  gloam. 


58 


BACK-FIKES 

ONCE  when  I  roamed  the  prairies  wild 
With  Uncle  Bill,  he  told  me :     "  Child, 
See  where  that  line  of  blazes  runs 
Along  that  ridge  ?     As  sure  as  guns 
That  fire  will  get  us  if  we  shouldn't 
Fix  things  just  so  she  fairly  couldn't." 
Then  at  his  feet  he  dropped  a  match 
And  burned  a  great  big  safety  patch 
In  which  we  stood  until  the  fire 
All  round  about  had  spent  its  ire. 

I've  seen  that  back-fire  notion  used 
A  lot  since  then  —  sometimes  abused. 
When  one  o'er-nosey  shows  that  he 
Is  wild  with  curiosity 
To  know  a  thing  that  surely  is 
Not  e'en  related  to  his  biz, 
We  start  a  back-fire  in  his  mind 
By  telling  him,  just  for  a  blind, 
The  very  thing  he  wants  to  know  — 
It  disappoints  the  fellow  so! 

And  when  the  gossips  are  purveying 
Some  dirty  scandal  that's  conveying 
To  people's  minds  a  false  impression, 
You  may  create  a  sweet  digression 
By  starting,  publicly  as  they, 
A  story  of  that  self -same  jay 
59 


That  emphasizes  something  fine 
In  him.     As  that  goes  down  the  line 
It  takes  the  sting  from  out  the  other  — 
And  your  back-fire  has  saved  a  brother. 


60 


'ROUND  FATHER'S  GRIP 

WHEN  Father's  come  from  some  long  trip 
We  chicks  all  kneel  around  his  grip 
And  try  to  keep  our  faces  straight 
And  not  look  tickled  while  we  wait 
Till  he  has  hugged  our  mother  tight 
And  kissed  her  twice  with  all  his  might. 
We're  glad  to  see  him,  too,  but  then 
First  thing  when  he's  got  home  again 
From  some  great  long  and  busy  trip 
We  want  to  see  what's  in  his  grip ! 

Then  Father  kneels  among  us  there 

And  digs  a  key-ring  from  somewhere 

And  looks  as  if  he  had  forgot 

To  bring  us  things  —  we  know  he's  not ! 

We  gather  close  while  he  unlocks 

The  grip.     Then  each  one  gets  a  box 

Or  parcel  tied  up  with  a  string 

Or  some  such  gifty-looking  thing 

That's  'zactly  right.     We  squeal :     "  Oh,  Dad ! 

The  nicest  things  we've  ever  had !  " 

It's  not  just  what  we  get,  you  see, 
That  makes  us  glad.     For  it  might  be 
If  Father  came  home  once  without 
The  gifts  for  us  we'd  give  a  shout 
And  hug  him  hard.     But  oh,  it's  great 
That  when  he's  in  some  other  State 

61 


'Way  off  from  home  he  thinks  of  us, 
From  ten-year  Blanche  to  one-year  Gus, 
So  when  he's  come  home  from  his  trip 
"We  kneel  and  giggle  'round  his  grip ! 


OUK  CAPACITY 

TEN  times  I've  said :     "  My  soul  can  bear  no 
more." 

Ten  times,  "  Life  holds  no  more  of  joy,"  I've  said. 
My  mind  was  sick,  my  mind  was  wounded  sore, 
And  hope's  last  vestige  from  my  sky  had  fled. 
But  looking  back  to  those  most  hopeless  hours 
When  I  was  sure  no  light  could  come  again, 
I  look  across  a  field  of  sun  and  showers  — 
I've  known  both  keener  pain  and  joy  since  then. 

We  know  not  what  the  heart  can  bear  until 
The  burdens  come.     The  lighter  loads  we've  borne 
Have  strengthened  us  for  fardel  and  for  hill  — 
We  shall  wear  sorrows  greater  than  we've  worn. 
Yet  after  every  deeper  dark  comes  light 
Such  as  we  ne'er  had  dreamed  on  earth  could  be. 
Then  play  the  human  game  with  all  your  might  — 
Life's  hoarding  many  a  prize  for  you  and  me! 


63 


T  \  7H 

W 


WHEN  I  AM  WRONG 
EN"  I  am  wrong,  Lord,  courage  me  to  own 


To  say,  "  Forgive  me  for  the  wrong  I  did." 
Drive  out  the  wild  desire  to  condone  it 

And  keep  the  grievous  fault  within  me  hid. 
Yet  while  I  honestly  admit  my  sin, 
Keep  off  the  friend  who  likes  to  rub  it  in  ! 

When  I  have  erred,  Lord,  teach  me  to  admit  it  ; 

To  clear  all  others  of  suspicion's  taint  ; 
To  own  —  and  hear  the  punishment  to  fit  it  —  • 

The  wrong  in  me,  nor  feel  the  least  restraint. 
Yet  while  I'd  hear  the  pains  my  sinnings  win, 
Keep  from  my  clutches  him  who'd  rub  it  in  ! 

Lord,  all  my  rank  transgressions  I  would  own; 

All  my  profuse  shortcomings  I'd  admit  ; 
I'd  shout  them  out  in  any  sort  of  tone 

To  keep  some  innocent  from  being  "  it." 
But  —  here  my  rebel  promptings  would  begin  — 
I  cannot  love  the  folks  who'd  rub  it  in  ! 


64 


A  DIXIE  LULLABY 

LAUGHIN"'  wif  yo'  dinneh  in  de  cohneh  ob  yo' 
mouf  — 

Sweetes'  pickaninny  in  dis  po'tion  ob  de  Souf. 

Lookin'  at  yo'  mammy  fum  de  tail-eend  ob  yo' 
eye  — 

Make  has'e  dar,  brack  baby,  fo'  yo'  meal-time  slip- 
pin'  by. 

Make  dem  sof  lips  wiggle  —  yo's  a  triflin'  li'l 
coon! 

Mammy  up  en  take  yo'  dinneh  fum  yo',  putty 
soon! 

Laughin'   wif  yo'   dinneh   in  de  cohneh   ob  yo' 

mouf — 
Yo'  ain't  fear'd  de  crops  will  fail  en  ain't  askeered 

o'  drouf. 
Kollin'  roun'  dem  shiny  eyes  at  mammy  —  li'l 

scamp ! 
Mammy  she  ain't  lub  yo'  none  —  she  fling  yo'  ter 

a  tramp! 

Huh-uh !     Nee'n't  pucker  up  yo'  baby  lips  en  cry ! 
Mammy  gwine  ter  lub  yo'  twell  de  salty  sea  run 

dry. 

Sleepin'   wif   his   dinneh   in   de   cohneh   ob  his 

mouf  — 
Wahm  lips  on  de  proudest  mammy  boozum  in  de 

Souf. 

65 


Belly  full  o'  dinneh  en  his  skeer  all  druv  away  — 
Lawd!     Huccome  dey  cain't  stay  small  fohebeh 

en  a  day? 
Bofe  dem  shiny  windehs  got  dey  shettahs  farstened 

down  — 
Fix  dat  baid,  Sis'  Lindy,  w'ile  he  slumbehm'  so 

soun'! 


66 


THE  EVER  NEW 

T  TE  knew  that  he  knew  all  of  fatherhood: 
•*•  •••    He  had  read  books  about  it ;  had  observed. 
He  knew  quite  all  there  was  in  it  of  good ; 

How  to  unselfish  sacrifice  it  nerved 
Men  of  the  feeblest  courage.     He  was  wise 
On  that  and  all  themes  else  below  the  skies ! 

One  day  his  young  wife  hid  her  blushing  face 
Against  his  breast   and  whispered   something 
sweet. 

A  thrill,  of  which  he  ne'er  had  known  a  trace 
In  all  his  past,  stirred  him  from  head  to  feet. 

To  man's  full  stature  in  a  trice  he  grew ; 

At  last  life's  deepest  springs  he  knew  —  he  knew ! 

Now  when,  upon  his  awkward,  untaught  arm, 
He  holds  the  helpless  mite  —  Hers  and  his  own, 

And  feels  that  from  earth's  most  resistless  harm 
He  could  defend  it  with  that  arm  alone, 

He  understands  as  ne'er  he  understood  — 

As  though  he  had  invented  fatherhood ! 


67 


TO  A  WIFE 

WE  have  had  our  little  sorrows 
We  have  known  our  little  pain; 
We  have  had  our  dark  tomorrows, 
Had  our  sunshine  after  rain. 

But  the  worst  of  all  our  losses, 

Loyal  comrade  of  my  heart, 
We  have  found  the  little  crosses 

That  we  tried  to  bear  apart ! 

Care  we  jointly  bore  proved  blessing ; 

Care  each  bore  alone  proved  blight  — 
Till,  with  humbly  frank  confessing, 

Each  returned  to  each  for  light ; 

Till  we  learned  the  law  unfailing 

That  controls  our  happiness : 
Prayer  and  tears  are  unavailing, 

Prayed  or  shed  in  selfishness. 

Then,  though  bleak  or  blithe  the  weather, 
Be  the  landscape  gray  or  green, 

Let  us  cling  so  close  together 
Not  a  care  can  creep  between. 


68 


MY  CHRISTMAS  SUPREME 

TinWAS  an  old,  blue  yarn  stocking,  white-toed 

•*•        and  white-heeled, 

That  our  mother  had  knit  —  (we  had  seen  her 
When  we  stayed  'round  the  fire  with  an  ear  that 

had  "  bealed  "— 

Sat  with  pained  but  submissive  demeanor 
Because  of  the  husking  we  thus  might  escape 
In  the  blustering  weather  outside). 
'Twas  this  very  same  stocking  we  hung  by  its  nape 
That  eve  ere  the  yule's  joyful  tide. 

'Twas  a  mean  little  room  —  should  we  see  it  to- 
day— 

With  chromos  ill-framed  'round  the  wall. 

When  you  came  from  the  porch,  you  were  in  — 
right  away ! 

!Nb  vestibule,  storm  door  or  hall. 

For  we  lived  as  our  forefathers,  rugged  and 
poor  — 

Have  a  care !     Do  not  murmur,  "  oppressed !  " 

We  were  gentle  at  heart  in  the  guise  of  the  boor. 

And  pride  ruled  supreme  in  each  breast. 


'Twas  a  pair  of  suspenders,  some  candy,  a  book 
And  a  splendid  big  orange  I  felt 
When  —  heart  in  my  throat,  too  excited  to  look  — 
Next  morn  on  the  hearthstone  I  knelt. 

69 


"  That    all  ? "    you    inquire.     Oh,    you    wealth- 
pampered  thing! 

Suppress  the  contempt  in  your  tone. 
With  those  princeliest  gifts  I  was  rich  as  the  king 
Who  lolls  on  his  vassal-girt  throne. 

On  Christmases  since,  all  the  pitiful  cost 

Of  the  presents  that  morning  I  found 

From  the  price  of  my  gifts  could  be  carelessly  lost 

And  roll  off,  unmissed,  on  the  ground. 

But  something  of  wealth  has  been  taken  away 

And  I  wish  —  or  at  least  so  I  feel  — 

I  could  trade  it  all  back  for  the  joy  hid  away 

In  that  sock  with  the  white  toe  and  heel. 


70 


FORGETTING  THE  BOY 

T  DARE  not  ever  think  of  him; 
*•     For  when  I  do  my  eyes  grow  dim 
And  all  the  heart  of  me  goes  out 
In  one  long,  agonizing  shout 
To  reach  him  there,  across  the  miles 
That  bar  me  from  his  frowns  and  smiles. 
So,  since  he  can  not  hear  my  call, 
I  will  not  think  of  him  at  all ! 

I  dare  not  think  of  him,  because 
It  makes  my  very  breathing  pause 
Until  the  lump  that's  in  my  throat 
Goes,  and  a  vastly  cheerier  note 
My  daily  song  may  dominate. 
And  thus,  from  early  until  late 
My  will  between  us  lifts  a  wall  — 
I  do  not  think  of  him  at  all ! 

An  unkind  custom  has  decreed 
That  man  —  however  dire  his  need, 
Though  half  a  woman,  by  his  birth  — 
Must  never  dew  the  thirsting  earth 
With  tears  of  his.     O,  brute  decree ! 
So  must  I  steel  the  heart  of  me 
And  never  let  a  salt  drop  fall  — 
I  dare  not  think  of  him  at  all ! 

I  dare  not  think  about  the  last 
Big  hug  he  gave  me  —  dare  not  cast 
71 


My  mind's  eye  back  to  him,  or  hear 
His  vibrant  voice  close  by  my  ear : 
"  See,  Daddy,  I  still  got  my  dollar  — 
There,  now,  I  all  smeared  up  your  collar !  " 
None  of  these  things  dare  I  recall  — 
I  never  think  of  him  at  all  1 


WHY  WE  DO  SO 

WE  talk  to  them  when  they're  asleep  — 
These  tiny  objects  of  our  love! 
We  murmur  to  them  while  we  weep 
And  call  them  each  our  treasure  trove. 

We  talk  to  them  when  they're  asleep  — 
Oh,  wayward  children  that  they  are !  — 
And  hope  that  always  we  may  keep 
Their  feet  from  straying  into  far 

And  thorn-girt  paths  beset  with  sin — ? 
That  they  may  never,  never  reap 
Such  harvesting  as  ours  has  been  — 
We  talk  to  them  when  they're  asleep. 

Now  do  not  bust  right  out  and  weep, 
Or  let  your  cheeks  with  teardrops  glisten; 
We  talk  to  them  when  they're  asleep 
'Cause  that's  the  only  time  they'll  listen. 


73 


"  JUST  FINE  » 

IF  you  ask  her  how  she  feels  — • 
"Just  fine!" 
Ask  about  her  new  cook's  meals  — 

"Just  fine!" 

Ask  her  how  she  liked  the  show 
Into  which  you  saw  her  go ; 
Ask  her  how  her  house  plants  grow  — = 
"Just  fine!" 

Ask  her  anything  you  wish  — 

"Just  fine!" 
How  she  likes  her  chafing  dish  — 

"Just  fine!" 

Ask  her  how  the  country'll  do 
With  its  lessened  revenue. 
She  will  simply  glow  at  you  — 

"Just  fine!" 

"  Rather  tiresome  ? "  did  you  say  *— •* 

"Just  fine!" 
Hate  to  hear  it  day  on  day  — 

"Just  fine!" 

But  that  bromide  with  a  smile 
Has  folks  beat  about  a  mile 

,  in  answering,  all  the  while 

Just  whine ! 


ONE'S  OWN 

FUNNY,   ain't  it?     Wlien  th'  children  of  a 
neighborhood  is  fed 
On  the  very  same  variety  of  grub, 
That  some  of  them  is  yeller  gold  an'  some  of  'em 

is  lead  — 
Th'    difference    'twixt    th'    thoroughbred    an' 

scrub  ? 
Thought   o'   that   th'   other   evenin'   when   'twas 

gradjyatin'  time 

At  th'  high-school  down  to  Abernathy's  Cove  — 
When  I  see  my  girl  amongst  'em  —  gosh,  th'  con- 
trast wuz  a  crime !  — 

Like  a  volunteer  petooney  growin'  in  a  jimson 
grove. 

All  th'  dresses  was  as  white  as  hers  —  I  reckon, 

purty  nigh  • — 

All  th'  ribbons  wore  wuz  either  pink  *er  blue ; 
All  th'  posies  that  they  carried  growed  beneath  our 

country  sky, 

An'  they  might  of  looked  about  as  good  to  you. 
But  th'  laws-a-mercy  on  us!     When  her  ma  an' 

me  set  there 
A  wipin'  tears  an'  sniffin'  an'  a-lookin'  at  that 

batch, 
Th'  others  wuzn't  no  place  —  our  Melissey,  on  th' 

square, 

Seemed  a  volunteer  petooney  bloomin'  in  a  rag- 
weed patch ! 

75 


Then  sez  I,  it  can't  be,  really ;  so  I  turned  an'  ast 

M'ri! 

(She's  my  woman,  an'  th'  mother  of  th'  girl) 
If  th'  wuz  so  much  of  difference,  exceptin'  in  my 

eye. 

An'  y'  orto  seen  th'  woman  give  a  whirl 
An'  snicker  at  me,  scornful,   as  she  says :     "  I 

reckon  SO ! 

Them  there  eugenic  fellers  says  that  they's  dif- 
ference in  breeds. 
An'  any  one  with  half  a  eye  can't  scarcely  help  but 

know 

A  volunteer  petooney  'mongst  a  garden  full  o' 
weeds ! " 


A  WAIL  and  a  song  are  the  sounds  of  men; 
They  tell  of  joy,  of  sorrow. 
The  wail  may  rule  for  a  day,  but  then 

The  song  must  rule  the  morrow. 
And  this  you  will  find,  'mid  the  lilt  or  croak 

From  the  throngs  that  toil  or  shirk : 
The  wailings  come  from  the  idle  folk, 
And  the  songs  from  those  who  work. 

For  the  busiest  aye  are  the  happiest  — 

JTis  the  sloths  have  time  to  grumble. 
The  toiler  goes  to  his  work  with  zest  — 

It  keeps  him  sweet  and  humble. 
But  the  idle  one  aye  is  the  malcontent 

And  his  whole  horizon's  murk  — 
The  song  comes  up  from  the  life  toil-blent, 

And  the  wail  from  those  who  shirk. 

"  In  the  sweat  of  thy  brow  " —  He  knew  us  well 

Who  made  us  in  His  image. 
"  He  knoweth  our  frame,"  so  the  Scriptures  tell, 

And  the  normal  life's  a  scrimmage. 
So  list  to  the  song  of  the  toilers  brave 

Whose  souls  keep  sweet  through  work ; 
And  close  your  ears  to  the  mournful  stave 

Of  the  wailers  who  only  shirk. 


. 

SHE  HAS  HEE  POINTS 

BEHOLD  the  old,  pot-bellied  mare 
Who  stands  beside  the  stack. 
She  is  not  stream-lined  anywhere; 

She  has  a  sagging  back. 
The  hair  is  worn  from  off  her  sides 

Where  tug  and  trace  have  been; 
Profound  disgust  with  life  abides 
About  that  pendant  chin. 

Her  draggled  fetlocks  reek  with  mud, 

Her  tail  is  full  of  burs ; 
"No  pride  of  race  or  purple  blood 

Or  Blue-grass  sires  is  hers. 
Her  sturdy  pasterns,  chaff-bestrewn, 

Have  blemishes  galore; 
Through  straw-filled  mane  the  breezes  croon, 

Each  shoulder  bears  a  sore. 

But  she  has  never  cast  a  tire ; 

Her  starter  always  works; 
Her  spark-plugs  never  fail  to  fire; 

Her  timer  never  shirks; 
Her  oil-gauge  plunger  never  sticks ; 

And  ne'er  has  she,  I  ween, 
Five  miles  from  home,  or  maybe  six, 

Kun  out  of  gasolene! 


WHEN  SATAN  WAS  PUZZLED 

OLD  Satan  looked  the  victim  o'er  and  sat  him 
down  and  wept. 

He  knew  his  limitations  just  as  anybody  does. 
He  looked  along  the  shelves  where  all  his  torture 

books  were  kept; 
He  called  his  imps  to  conference,  and  held  a 

lengthy  buzz 
With  all  his  chief  advisers,  but  they  couldn't  help 

a  bit. 

They  couldn't  find  a  recipe,  a  codicil  or  clause 
Providing  for  a  fate  so  bad  it  should  be  used  to  fit 
The  case  of  him  who'd  told  his  child  there  was 
no  Santa  Claus. 

Said  Satan,  in  between  his  sobs,  "I've  had  some 

toughs  before  — 
I've  had  the  man  who  whipped  his  wife,  the  man 

who  robbed  a  church, 
I've  had  the  one  who  sold  the  mine  filled  up  with 

salted  ore, 
But  here's  a  guy  who  leaves  the  others  sadly  in 

the  lurch. 
I've  not  a  room  that's  hot  enough,  no  pincers  that 

will  serve 
To  gouge  this  geezer  hard  enough,  though  held 

by  strongest  paws^ — • 

This  king  of  worldly  misanthropes  who  had  the 
boundless  nerve 

79 


To  tell  his  little  children:     'No,  there  is  no 
Santa  Glaus.' " 

So  Satan  wept  and  wept  again  and  wrung  his  cal- 
loused hands, 
He  had  a  downright  tantrum  in  his  ecstasy  of 

grief. 
He  said,  "  I've  fixed  the  worst  of  them  from  all  the 

climes  and  lands, 
But  what  to  do  with  this  gazabe,  of  meanest  men 

the  chief?" 
At  length  he  smiled  and  showed  the  man  (by  his 

Satanic  magic) 
The  thought  his  sons  should  have  of  him  —  he 

gave  a  frenzied  scream ! 
Then  Satan  smiled  in  keener  glee  —  he'd  found  a 

finish  tragic 

For  him  who'd  ruined  ruthlessly  his  children's 
sweetest  dream. 


80 


ALL  OF  US 

KIDS  in  a  cornfield,  waving  at  the  train 
That  scurries  by  on  its  mysterious  way 
To  lands  as  distant  as  the  Spanish  Main 

Seemed  to  us  in  our  own  untraveled  day. 
Barefooted,  overalled,  sunbonneted, 

Hoe  in  the  hollow  of  an  arm,  they  wave 
At  this  fleet  vision  —  coming  now,  now  fled  — 
A  ride  on  that?     No  finer  boon  they  crave. 

Kids  in  a  cornfield,  waving  at  the  train, 

While  we  inside  are  envious  as  they  — 
We  envying  them  the  care-free  heart  and  brain 

That  need  but  dream  and  wonder  all  the  day; 
We  wishing  that  the  trips  we  needs  must  make 

Were  gorgeous  as  our  cornfield  vision  seemed 
Before  we  gambled  for  life's  larger  stake  — 

While    yet    behind    the    scenes    we    grandly 
dreamed. 

Life  is  a  train  at  which  we  children  wave  — 

We    friendly    ones:    some    merely    sulk    and 

frown  — 
Load  and  unload  at  cradle  and  at  grave; 

Speeding  for  one,  then  gently  plowing  down 
To  drop  some  passenger  whose  journey's  done. 

We  hope  to  be  caught  up  and  carried  hence 
To  wider  vistas,  past  the  setting  sun  — 

No  traveler's  tale  has  e'er  been  wafted  thence! 
81 


And  we  who  wave  in  friendliness  may  hope 

To  be  caught  up  and  carried  far  and  far 
To  bigger  things,  while  they  who  stand  and  mope 

In  bitterness,  beside  the  fleeting  car, 
Fast-anchored  by  their  sullenness,  remain 

Within  the  cornfield  all  their  livelong  day. 
Then  let  us  wondering  children  greet  life's  train 

And  for  life's  finer,  broader  vision  pray. 


A  MIDDLE-AGE  REFLECTION 

I   SAW  a  chap  the  other  day  that  once  I'd  used 
to  know. 
His  cheeks  were  rosy,  hair  jet  black,  in  days  of 

long  ago. 
But  now  the  roses  are  not  there,  the  raven  hair  is 

streaked 
With  snowy  white  where  ruthless  Time  his  grim 

revenge  has  wreaked. 
I  marveled.     For  the  heart  of  me  is  young  as  when 

I  knew 
The  fellow  years  and  years  ago  'neath  skies  of 

youth's  own  blue. 
And  then  I  chanced  to  recollect,  and  heard  my  own 

voice  say : 
"What  has  been  happening  to  me,  while  he  was 

turning  gray  ? " 

Day  after  day  I'd  seen  myself  reflected  in  the 

glass  — 
The  change  had  been  so  gradual  my  eyes  had  let  it 

pass 
Unnoticed.     Had  I  failed  to  see  myself  for  such  a 

span 
As  had  elapsed  since  I  had  met  this  other  aging 

man, 
!N"o  doubt  the  contrast  would  have  been  as  great.     I 

had  been  used 
To  thinking  of  myself  as  still  with  wine  of  youth 

infused. 

83 


Perhaps  the  same  was  in  his  mind  when  we  two 

met  that  day : 
"  What  has  been  happening  to  me  while  he  was 

turning  gray  ?  " 

But  young  at  heart  —  God  keep  us  that !     Let  care 

be  laughed  to  scorn. 
Let's  keep  our  backs  to  eventide  and  always  face 

the  morn. 
Let's  keep  the  ripeness  of  our  noon  to  guide  the 

girls  and  boys 
Whose  youth  is  callower  than  ours  and  lacking 

deeper  joys. 
The  snow  of  age  may  dust  our  hair,  it  can  not  reach 

within. 
We'll  teach  those  careworn  youths  of  ours  to  bear 

their  griefs  and  grin  — 
Go  to  the  one  whose  empty  life  has  palled  on  him, 

and  say: 
"A  wiser  youth  has  come  to  me  while  you  were 

turning  gray !  " 


WHEN  THE  KIDS  ABE*  AWAY 

EVERY    Sunday   of   my   lifetime,    when   the 
children  are  at  home, 
I  must  get  the  "  funny  papers  " —  just  as  many  as 

I  can  — 
And    proceed    to    read    them    thoroughly  —  go 

through  them  with  a  comb 
And  extract  their  every  giggle,  from  Beersheba 

plumb  to  Dan. 
And  they  tickle  me  —  yes,  honest !  —  quite  as  well 

as  any  one. 
I  just  hurt  my  sides  a-laughing  at  each  bit  of 

equine  play. 
But  I  read  them  over  sadly  —  cannot  find  a  stitch 

of  fun 
In  the  whole  disgusting  medley,  when  the  children 

are  away. 

Do  I  care  ?     Am  I  repentant  that  I've  had  so  little 
sense 

As  to  gurgle  o'er  the  follies  of  the  "  funny  paper  " 
folks? 

Am  I  making  resolutions  that  no  more  these  froth- 
ings  dense 

Shall  arouse  my  cachinnations  —  that  I'll  stick  to 
subtler  jokes? 

"No.     Instead  I'm  always  wishing  that  the  kids 
were  back  again 

So  there'd  be  more  fun  in  living ;  so  I'd  cackle  like 
a  jay 

85 


Over  all  the  loutish  capers  of  the  "  funny  paper  " 
men 

That  somehow  lose  all  their  tickle  when  the  chil- 
dren are  away. 


THE  "UNBELIEVERS" 

I'VE  been  around  with  lots  o'  ginks 
Of  that  ludicrous  class  that  thinks  it  thinks ; 
And  I've  heard  'em  boast  of  "  unbelief," 
Expectin'  to  see  me  bust  with  grief. 
But  I  only  grin,  for  I  full  well  know 
They  mean  no  more  than  the  winds  that  blow. 
Let  somethin'  occur  to  disturb  their  mind, 
And  you'll  see  they've  faith  of  the  old-time  kind- 
One  time  I  was  brakin'  (the  job  ahead) 
On  th'  engine  run  by  Penuckle  Red 
With  Hardnut  Bates  on  th'  left-hand  side 
When  he  wasn't  shovelin' — nasty  ride! 
For  them  two  geezers  set  an'  cussed  — 
Till  sudden  a  wore-out  side-rod  bust. 
An'  both  them  fellers  believed  in  God 
Till  they  knowed  they  was  missed  by  that  slashin' 
rod. 

An'  there  was  Johnny  Trevelyan  —  him 

That  used  t'  flag  with  Crazy  Jim; 

Jest  th'  out-an'-outerest  cuss  t'  swear 

That  they  weren't  no  God,  not  anywhere. 

An'  he'd  prove  it,  too,  by  a  process  slick. 

An'  he  kep'  this  up  till  his  kid  got  sick. 

Then    Johnny    prayed  —  an'    his    prayin'    was 

swell !  — 

Till  th'  baby  started  a-gettin'  well. 

87 


I've  seen  'em  often  that  thought  they  thought 
An'  laid  to  "  natur'  "  what  God  had  wrought. 
An'  I've  seen  'em  eat  it  when  danger  come 
An'  their  chance  for  life  seemed  on  th'  bum. 
Belief  in  somethin'  higher  up 
Comes  nat'ral  's  barkin'  does  to  a  pup. 
Th'  "  unbelief  "  of  th'  kind  I've  heerd 
Jest  lasts  till  th'  guy  gits  good  an'  skeered. 


THE  FUN  OF  LIVING 

« 'TTAVEN'T  we  had  fun  today?  " 

•••  •*•   Thus  my  youngster,  tired  of  play, 
Gurgles  to  me  every  night 
Just  before  his  eyes  go  tight 
Shut  in  restful,  dreamless  sleep  — 
Baby  slumber  sound  and  deep. 

"  Haven't  we  had  fun  today  ? " 
One  of  us  is  sure  to  say 
At  his  bedtime.     For  his  dad 
Is  no  older  than  the  lad  — 
Counting  by  the  way  he  feels 
When  the  two  kick  up  their  heels. 

"  Haven't  we  had  fun  today  ?  " 
As  the  years  grow  later,  may 
Neither  of  us  e'er  deny 
Such  assertion,  with  a  sigh. 
May  the  bigger  things  of  life 
Seem  a  game,  with  cheerful  strife. 

"  Haven't  we  had  fun  today  ?  " 
When  God  bids  me  go  away 
From  this  world  we  so  enjoy, 
May  I  hear  him  —  still  "  my  boy  " — * 
Laugh  his  au  revoir,  and  say 
"  Haven't  we  had  fun  today  ? " 


89 


SOMETHING  SWEET  TO  EEMEMBER 

NO  matter  if  things  of  the  present  are  less  than 
we  wish  them  to  be ; 
No  matter  if  joys  we'd  expected  pass  by  on  the 

other  side; 
No  matter  if  hope's  finest  fruitage  still  clings  to  the 

wishing  tree, 

No  matter  if  some  of  our  dreamings  have  lin- 
gered awhile  and  died. 
Even  lacking  these  satisfactions,  life  is  far  from 

a  pleasureless  thing  — 

If  we've  something  that's  sweet  to  remember,  we 
can  bravely  and  blithesomely  sing. 

There  was  once  —  howe'er  joyless  your  present  — 

when  you  thrilled  with  the  love  of  life ; 
You  have  lived  through  some  perfect  moments 

when  your  darlingest  wish  was  fulfilled ; 
There  have  been  little  seasons  of  triumph,  when 

your  banner  rode  over  the  strife, 
When,  just  as  if  Fate  were  your  servant,  things 

came  as  you'd  stubbornly  willed. 
So  now,  though  your  colors  be  trailing,  though  some 

other's  joy-flag  is  afling, 

If  you've  something  that's  sweet  to  remember, 
you  may  live  in  that  mem'ry,  and  sing ! 


90 


PUT  TO  THE  TEST 

THE  friends  you've  lost  by  frankness  were  a 
craven  sort  at  best ; 
They  never  were  the  kind  you'd  want  when  trouble 

was  your  lot. 
They  were  but  latent  enemies  in  garb  of  friendship 

dressed  — 
The  sooner  you  were  shed  of  them  the  better,  like 

as  not. 
So  though  it  hold  the  bitterness  of  wormwood 

mixed  with  gall, 
The  friends  you  lose  through  frankness  aren't  your 

real  friends,  at  all ! 

The  friend  who  knows  you  as  you  are,  to  whom  you 
never  need 

To  give  an  explanation  for  your  most  eccentric  act, 

He  is  the  only  kind  to  have  —  a  friend  in  very 
deed! 

The  qualities  this  good  friend  has,  the  "  friend  " 
you're  mourning  lacked. 

So  doff  the  sable  weeds  you  wear  and  whistle  some- 
thing gay  — 

The  friend  you've  lost  through  frankness  would 
have  failed  you  anyway. 


91 


THE  INEXPRESSIBLE  LINCOLN 

GAUNT ;  solemn ;  lines  of  sorrow  in  his  face ; 
Deep,  melancholy  eyes  where  dwelt  the  grief 
Of  all  mankind  —  already  you  can  trace 
The  old,  familiar  formula,  in  brief, 
We  follow  when  we  singers  would  depict 
The  greatest,  strangest,  sweetest  soul  since  He 
Of  Nazareth  fulfilled  divine  edict 
And  walked  the  earth  for  wond'ring  men  to  see. 

But  in  our  groping  we  completely  miss 
The  point  of  what  we'd  make  our  words  express. 
There  may  be  words  in  other  worlds  than  this 
To  reach  the  subtle  core  of  things,  and  dress 
Our  finest  feelings  in  some  lingual  garb 
Conveyable  to  other  ears  than  ours  — 
Grief  of  the  Christ  whose  side  receives  the  barb ; 
Or  sweet,  soul-thrilling  fragrance  of  the  flowers. 

When  comes  the  anniversary  of  him 
Whose  name  we  love,  whose  mem'ry  we  revere, 
We  still  attempt,  in  language  vague  and  dim, 
To  voice  a  feeling  deep,  and  strong  and  clear  — 
Using  the  hackneyed  phrases  o'er  and  o'er 
As  oft  as  comes  our  idol's  natal  day ; 
Missing  each  time,  as  we  have  missed  before, 
The  soul  of  that  we'd  give  our  souls  to  say. 


THE  HARDENING  PROCESS 

HE  went  without  underwear  half  of  his  life, 
Just  to  harden  himself. 
He  boasted  —  sometimes  came  a  boast  from  his 

wife  — 

How  he  hardened  himself. 
No  overcoat  ever  was  seen  on  his  form, 
And  yet  he  contended  he  always  was  warm  — 
He  feared  not  the  blizzard,  he  feared  not  the  storm. 
He  had  hardened  himself. 


He  slept  in  a  tent,  with  mosquito  bar  sheets  — 

Just  to  harden  himself ; 

Slept  out  through  the  snows  and  slept  out  through 
the  sleets, 

Just  to  harden  himself. 

He  wouldn't  have  slept  in  a  house  —  mercy,  no ! 
Such  coddling  as  that  brought  humanity  woe; 
E'en  when  it  was  twenty  or  thirty  below 

He  would  harden  himself. 


One  night  the  thermometer  dropped  like  a  shot 
While  he  hardened  himself. 

It  broke  all  the  records,  so  chilly  it  got, 
While  he  hardened  himself. 

Next  morning  he  didn't  come  out  of  his  tent 

And  when  to  awake  him  his  gentle  wife  went, 

93 


She  found  him  —  froze  stiff !     He  just  couldn't  be 

bent! 
He  had  hardened  himself  — 

At  last, 
Keally  hardened  himself. 


94 


WHAT  OF  YOUK  FIGHT? 

WAS  your  weight  behind  the  blow? 
Do  you  positively  know 
Not  another  ounce  of  power  could  have  gone  into 

your  punch  ? 

Left  you  any  stone  unturned, 
Any  rearward  bridge  unburned  — 
Did  you  stake  your  last  simoleon  to  justify  your 
hunch? 

In  the  effort  that  you  made 

Was  your  utmost  strength  displayed  ? 

Did  you  mutter :     "  If  'tis  in  me  to  get  by  with  it, 

here  goes ! " 

Did  you  say,  "  I'll  pay  the  price 
Now,  to  save  the  time  of  twice  " — 
Did  you  hit  out  from  the  shoulder,  leaning  forward 

from  your  toes  ? 

Did  you  try,  or  think  you  tried  ? 

Did  you  bore  in,  savage-eyed, 

Till  your  foeman's  solar-plexus  or  the  apex  of  his 

jaw 

Was  unguarded?     Did  you  land 
With  a  wallop  in  each  hand? 
Should  the  fight  have  been  a  knockout,  'stead  of 

stopping  with  a  draw? 

Know,  when  every  fight  is  done — . 
Be  the  vict'ry  lost  or  won  — , 

95 


There  was  not  a  drop  of  fighting  lying  idle  in  your 

breast. 

Even  bruises  and  defeat 
Have  their  modicum  of  sweet 
When  you  know  that  in  the  battle  you  have  done 

your  level  best. 


96 


A  FACIAL  STUDY 

HE  stood  on  the  street  —  a  wretched  thing  of 
tatters,  rags  and  bloat. 
He  had  no  pockets  for  his  hands,  so  he  wrapped 

them  in  his  coat  — 
His  threadbare,  wind-whipped,  faded  coat  that  did 

not  keep  him  warm 
Beside  the  slender  post  that  stood  between  him 

and  the  storm. 
And  while  dejected  thus  he  loafed  and  shivered  in 

the  gale, 
A  counterpart  of  him  came  by,  making  a  zigzag 

trail. 
As  the  staggerer  passed  the  sober  tramp  I  caught 

the  latter's  eye  — 

The   envious   look   of   a   sober  bum   when   a 
drunken  bum  went  by. 

An  envious  look  ?     Yes,  that  was  there,  but  vastly 

more  beside. 

I  saw  a  look  of  shame  contort  that  visage  bleary- 
eyed. 

'Twas  such  a  look  as  plainly  said:     "A  counter- 
part of  me! 
My  drunken  self  as  I  appear,  with  all  the  world 

to  see ! 
We're  both  among  the  down-and-outs  —  no  use  to 

try  again 

To  take  a  high  or  honored  place  among  the 
ranks  of  men !  " 

97 


All  this  with  envy  was  combined  —  I  thought  I 

heard  a  sigh 

From  the  wretched,  ragged,  sober  bum  as  the 
drunken  bum  went  by. 

And  I  thought  I  noticed  a  strong  disgust  and 

maybe  a  gleam  of  hope 
In  the  sober  one's  face  as  he  watched  his  friend 

in  his  aimless  weave  and  grope. 
I  thought  I  saw  a  feeble,  faintly  flickering  flash 

of  life 
From  the  burned-out  fires  that  once  had  driven 

his  soul's  ambitious  strife. 
But  perchance  I  erred,  and  perhaps  the  hope  that 

I  half  believed  I  saw 
Was  a  fantasy  born  of  the  prayer  I  made  as  I 

gazed  at  the  loose-hung  jaw,  • 
The   mottled   cheek   and   the   stubbly   chin,    the 

blurred  and  blearing  eye  — 
That  look  on  the  face  of  the  sober  bum  when 
the  drunken  bum  went  by. 


98 


JUST  NOTHIN' 

SITTIN'  all  lopped  over  with  yer  eyes  half  shut, 
Watchin'  somethin'  movin'  in  the  field  out 

there ; 

Somethin'  sorto  movin'  by  that  old,  gray  hut  — 
Dunno  if  it's  paper  or  a  hen  —  don't  care ! 

Watchin'  somethin'  movin' —  all  yer  mind  asleep 
'Cept  enough  t'  wonder  what  the  deuce  that  is  — 
Wouldn't  move  a  muscle  t'  find  out  —  just  keep 
Wonderin'  continyus  —  it's  such  easy  biz ! 

Sittin'  at  the  depot  on  a  rusty  truck, 

Shadder  of  yer  suitcase  movin'  faster  than  yer 

mind ! 
View  so  less-than-nothin'  you  believe  you'd  be  in 

luck 
If,  until  your  train  come,  you  was  temporary 

blind. 

Man  off  in  a  f odderfield  —  you  see  'is  overalls 
Bluer  than  th'  gray-blue  sky;  his  black  an'  sorrel 

team 
Movin'  on  from  shock  to  shock  —  small  enough 

fer  dolls! 
Afterward  you  wonder  if  you  seen  'em  in  a  dream. 

Two  folks  come  a-walkin'  from  th'  main  street  o' 

the  town  — 
Hear  th'  bus  a-rumblin'  like  th'  distant  roll  o' 

drums! 

99 


Somethin'  creaks ;  y'  see  th'  target-paddle  droppin' 

down, 
Bus  man  hikes  'is  pants  an'  spits  an'  grunts  out, 

"  Hyer  she  comes." 

Waitin'  fer  a  railroad  train  at  little  dumps  like 

that 

Is  just  th'  nearest  zero  you  can  find  below  th'  sky. 
Wish  I  had  a  dollar  fer  each  hour  I  have  sat  — 
"  Killin'  time  ? "  I  gosh,  it's  just  a-lettin'  of  her 

die! 


100 


THE  TRIFLINGEST  JOB 

I'VE  seen  men  work  at  everything  that's  piffling, 
seems  to  me, 

From  pounding  sand  in  ratholes  down  to  playing 
auction  bridge; 

I've  seen  men  spend  a  half  a  day  at  lining  up  a  bee 

That  flew  from  clovered  valley  to  the  woods  be- 
yond the  ridge. 

But  the  job  that's  always  proved  to  be  the  trifling- 
est  of  all; 

That  has  brought  the  least  returns  and  made  the 
failure  most  complete, 

Was  backing  up  a  gang  of  ginks  against  a  sunny 
wall 

And  telling  "  funny  "  stories  at  the  corner  of  the 
street. 

I've  seen  folks  play  at  mumbly-peg  and  horseshoe 

pitching,  too. 
I've  seen  'em  stand  for  hours  watching  some  one 

climb  a  pole; 
I've  seen  'em  lamp  safe-movers  while  they  eased 

their  burden  through 
A  window;  watched  'em  watching  down  a  ragged 

gas  ditch  hole. 
Now  as  trifling  as  these  capers,  they're  important 

in  compare 
With  the  other  job  I  mention  —  sure  forerunner 

of  defeat: 

101 


Lining  up  a  bunch  of  loafers  in  the  balmy,  springy 

air, 
And  telling  "  funny  "  stories  at  the  corner  of  the 

street. 

I'll  bet  a  pewter  nickel  with  a  hole  in  it,  that  when 

These  wasters  come  to  judgment  with  the  others, 
by  and  by, 

When  hotel-rocker-warmers  and  the  other  sons  of 
men 

Who  killed  their  time  most  foolishly,  have  strag- 
gled to  the  sky  — 

I'll  bet  a  pint  of  cookies  that  the  one  who'll  fare 
the  worst 

When,  standing  at  the  threshold,  he  is  questioned 
by  Saint  Pete, 

Will  be  the  one  referred  to  as  the  chief  of  the 
accurst  — 

The  one  whose  "  funny  "  stories  smirched  the  cor- 
ner of  the  street. 


102 


BECOMING  A  MAN 

1USED  to  think,  when  I  was  small,  that  all  I 
need  to  do 
To  be  a  man,  was  just  grow  up.     That  was  before 

I  knew 
So  much  of  grown-up  males  who  lack  as  much 

that  manhood  needs 
As  when  they  were  but  juveniles  and  dreamed  of 

manly  deeds. 
So  I  have  learned  this  much,  at  least,  since  when 

my  life  began: 
It  takes  much  more  than  growing  up  to  be  a  real 

man. 

"When  I  grow  up  and  be  a  man,"  you  hear  the 
small  boys  say. 

t/  «/  7 

As  if  by  merely  growing  large  they  should  be  men 

some  day. 
But,  knowing  manhood's  requisites  in  larger  sense, 

they'll  learn 
There's  much  besides  their  body  growth  for  which 

they  ought  to  yearn. 
The  stately  St.  Bernard  is  more  than  just  a  larger 

pup  — 
It  takes  much  more  to  be  a  man,  than  just  a-grow- 

ing  up! 

Fine  breadth  of  vision,  self-control,  a  boundless 

charity, 
A  gentler  tongue,  a  stronger  faith,  more  perfect 

clarity  1Qg 


In  spirit-vision;  patience  vast  —  more  patience 

still,  and  more; 
Wisdom  to  know  —  and  to  forget  —  all  that  has 

gone  before; 
Courage  to  smile  though  sorrow  fill  unto  its  brim 

your  cup  — 
More  is  required,  to  make  a  man,  than  merely 

growing  up! 


104 


THE  HIDDEN  PLAYMATES 

fllHE  old  man  went  where  the  boys  had  been 
JL    That  he  used  to  play  with,  long  ago ; 
To  the  white  schoolhouse  they  had  studied  in, 
With  the  church  and  the  graveyard  down  below. 
As  he  stood  alone  with  his  white  head  bowed, 
The  years  slipped  off  from  his  mind  and  soul 
And  he  lifted  his  voice  to  call  aloud 
His  one-time  mates'  familiar  roll: 

"  Tom !  "     Never  an  answei  but  echo  came. 
"  Bill !  "     Cows  in  a  nearby  field  looked  up. 
"George,"  "Philip,"  "Ben"— it  was  still  the 

same; 

And  grief  drops  welled  in  the  old  man's  cup. 
"  They  are  hiding  from  me,  those  rascals  are, 
As  they  used  to  hide  in  the  days  gone  by, 
When  '  books '  let  out,  and  near  and  far 
We  romped  and  ran  as  we  played  '  I  spy.' 

"  But  there  was  a  rule  that  it  wasn't  fair 

To  hide  in  the  graveyard,  near  the  church. 

And  once  —  when  we  told !  —  when  Ben  hid  there, 

The  teacher  taught  him  the  feel  of  birch. 

'  You  mustn't  play  where  they've  laid  their  dead,' 

She  cautioned  him  and  the  other  boys. 

'  It's  wicked  to  hide  'mid  the  mounds,'  she  said, 

'With   your  clumsy   feet   and  your   thoughtless 


105 


"  I  am  sure  they  have  broken  that  rule  today 
As  I  call  and  never  an  answer  comes. 
But  none  will  chide  them  or  say  them  nay  — 
Those  mischievous  lads  who  were  once  my  chums. 
Sometime,  when  I've  called  to  the  boys  again 
And  listened  in  vain  for  their  shrilled  reply, 
I'll  brave  the  teacher,  like  wayward  Ben, 
And  hide  myself  'mid  the  mounds  near  by." 


106 


SPOET 

HE  drove  a  motor  car  that  looked  just  like  a 
plumbing-shop. 
It  had  nine  hundred  ways  to  run  and  nary  way 

to  stop, 
And  when  he  cut  the  muffler  out  and  started  to 

warm  up 

It  sounded  like  a  shootf est  in  the  factory  of  Krupp. 
He  had  a  hairpin  turn  to  make  —  did  he  shut  off 

the  power? 
Not  quite !     He  took  that  awful  swerve  at  ninety 

miles  an  hour. 
A  tire  came  off  —  they  gathered  up  a  full  square 

inch  of  skin 
Beneath  the  hideous  devil-cart  where  this  poor 

chap  had  been. 

And  that  is  "  sport !  " 

He  sat  within  a  dirty  boat  upon  a  fishless  stream ; 
He   threw   his   high-priced    bait   far   out   where 

flashed  the  ripple's  gleam. 
The  sun  came  by  and  cooked  his  back,  the  black 

ants  chewed  his  flesh, 
The  huge  mosquitoes  pierced  his  shirt  at  every 

blessed  mesh. 
He  had  been  told  —  and  truthfully  —  that  not  a 

fish  existed 
Within  a  dozen  miles  of  there;  but  still  the  chap 

persisted 

107 


Until  he  ached  in  every  bone  and  reeked  at  every 
pore, 

Then  wretchedly  he  plodded  back  to  his  camp- 
cabin  door. 

And  that  is  "  sport !  " 

He  took  a  gun  and  tramped  all  day  o'er  forest 

brake  and  fen 
(Whatever  both  those  places  are)   far  from  the 

haunts  of  men. 
He  didn't  have  a  bite  to  eat  that  he'd  have  touched 

at  home. 

At  night  he  lay  on  bony  boughs  beneath  the  star- 
gemmed  dome; 
While  woodticks  bit  him  to  the  quick  and  sleepless 

hoot  owls  sang 
Till  he  and  his  companions  were  a  cross   and 

nervous  gang. 
Next  day  they  faced  the  constant  fear  that  each 

might  shoot  the  other, 
And  henceforth  bear  the  brand  of  Cain  as  one 

who'd  killed  a  brother. 

And  that  is  "  sport !  " 


108 


THE  GENERAL  STORE 

I'D  know  it  by  the  sight  of  it,  I'd  know  it  by 
the  smell ; 
I'd  know  it  by  the  sound  of  it,  and  know  it  mighty 

well. 
I'd  know  it  if  you  set  me  down  at  midnight,  'mid 

the  scent 

Of  coffee,  "  coal  oil,"  sugar  bins  and  country  but- 
ter blent. 
With  eyes  shut,  I  can  smell  again  the  prints  upon 

the  shelf 
Amid  the  hickory  shirting  —  you  could  do  the 

same  yourself 
If  you  had  lived  among  them  in  the  days  when 

life  was  bleak 
And  all  you  saw  was  in  the  town  —  say  every 

other  week. 

On  that  side  is  the  candy  —  I  can  see  it  now,  and, 

oh, 
How  good  those  striped  sticks  used  to  look  in  days 

of  long  ago! 
On  this  side  is  the  muslin  with  blue  trade  marks 

printed  on, 
The  bleached  and  unbleached  side  by  side;  and 

here's  some  slazy  lawn 
And  dimity  that  wouldn't  sell  (they'd  bought  it 

by  mistake) ; 
Some  blacking,  fans  and  currycombs,  with  hoe 

and  garden  rake. 

109 


We  used  to  carry  in  the  eggs  and  butter,  and  we'd 

buy 
Our  sugar,  tea  and  bluing  and  the  concentrated 

lye. 

We  used  to  wander  back  into  the  small  room  where 

they  kept 
The  kerosene  and  axle  grease — 'twas  hardly  ever 

swept ; 
But  there  it  was  we  found  the  scales  and  weighed 

ourselves  and  said 
It  wasn't  like  the  steelyards  out  in  our  old  wagon 

shed. 
'Twas  there  that  in  the  springtime  pa  would  buy 

us  all  straw  hats, 
The  ten-cent  kind  made  out  of  straw  they  use  for 

making  mats. 
In  fall  we  got  our  foot  gear  that  must  last  the 

winter  through, 
For  pa  said :     "  Them's  yer  winter  boots  —  ye've 

got  t'  make  'em  do." 

I've  been  in  houses  mercantile  that  covered  blocks 

and  blocks; 
I've  seen  the  clerks  that  swarm  around  in  bevies 

and  in  flocks; 

I've  seen  the  elevators ;  but  I  cannot  make  it  seem 
Like  anything  substantial,  for  'tis  nothing  but  a 

dream. 

110 


To  me  the  real  "store"  will  be,  as  long  as  life 
shall  last, 

That  smelly  country  village  place  I  knew  there 
in  the  past, 

With  just  one  clerk  to  sell  you  things  —  some  fel- 
low that  you  knew, 

Though  sometimes  on  a  circus  day  there'd  be  as 
high  as  two. 

No  fun  to  "  do  th'  tradin' "  like  I  used  to,  any 
more  — 

How  clear  is  memory's  picture  of  that  "  gen'ral " 
country  store! 


Ill 


THE  ETEKNAL  BEGINNING 

THIS  morning  is  the  time  when  I  begin. 
No  former  life  has  ever  entered  in 
To  dull  me.     I  have  had  my  nightly  rest  — 
Sufficient;  I  will  play  it  was  the  best. 
I  start  unhandicapped  by  old-time  fears, 
Unapprehensive  of  the  pregnant  years 
Still  in  the  future.     But  with  face  serene 
I  go  my  way  —  night  wiped  the  old  slate  clean. 

This  morning  will  I  love  the  mate  I  chose 
Once  on  a  time  —  the  trouble  that  arose, 
So  long  ago  as  yesterday,  is  dead. 
Nor,  martyr-like,  upon  her  patient  head 
Will  I  heap  coals  of  fire  —  and  renew 
The  bickering  that  the  kindly  night  withdrew. 
It  is  as  though  we  met  and  loved  afresh, 
As  ere  God  made  us  one  in  name  and  flesh. 

The  humbled  spirit  that  was  mine  last  night 
Gave  place  to  one  triumphant  ere  the  light. 
The  bitter  knowledge  of  my  own  defects 
Yields  to  a  braver  spirit  that  directs 
Myself  and,  by  and  large,  my  destiny  — 
No  timorous,  fear-born  phantom  threatens  me. 
The  past,  a  signed  report,  has  been  turned  in : 
This  morning  is  the  time  when  I  Begin. 


UNPARDONABLE 

THERE  is  pardon  for  failure  to  reach  just  the 
mark 

You'd  set  for  yourself  in  the  struggle  of  life. 
There's  forgiveness  for  him  who,  through  lacking 

the  spark 
Of  genius,  is  "  downed "  in  the  thick  of  the 

strife. 

There  is  balm  for  the  pride  of  the  fellow  who  fails 
To  attain  what  he  wished  when  his  struggle  be- 
gan. 

But  the  world  will  be  deaf  to  the  babyish  wails 
Of  the  man  who  does  less  than  the  best  that  he 
can. 

The  world's  fairly  just  in  accrediting  praise 

And  fairly  judicious  in  placing  the  blame. 
Its  eye's  fairly  clear  in  observing  the  plays 

In  front  of  the  grand  stand  in  life's  busy  game. 
The  runner  who's  spiked  is  forgiven  his  limp, 

And  nobody  kicks  o'er  the  pace  that  he  ran. 
But  the  hoot  and  the  jeer  for  the  white-livered  imp 

Who  does  any  less  than  the  best  that  he  can. 

When  we  finish  our  season  and  pennants  are  won, 
We'll  be  judged  not  so  much  by  our  batting  per 

cent. 
As  by  what,  with  more  effort,  we  ought  to  have 

done; 

By  the  time  we  have  wasted  on  indolence  bent. 
113 


There'll  be  less  of  "  What  did  you  ?  "  than  "  What 

could  have  been  ?  " 
In  the  light  of  equipment  your  work  they  will 

scan. 

They'll  forgive  you  for  failing  the  pennant  to  win, 
But  never  for  less-than-the-best-that-you-can. 


114 


THE  EASIEK  TASK 

NO  matter  what  the  treatment  he  accord  me, 
I  will  not  let  dislike  embitter  me ; 
Whate'er  unrest  unkindness  might  afford  me, 
I  will  keep  sweet,  however  hard  it  be. 
For  I  have  learned  — -  and  oh,  how  slow  the  learn- 
ing, 

And  with  what  costly  grief  has  it  been  mated !  — 
Hate  in  its  author's  heart  has  fiercest  burning  — 
'Tis  harder  work  to  hate  than  to  be  hated. 

Year  after  year  a  man  may  hate  his  brother  — 
Each  waking  hour  with  bitterness  be  filled. 
This  hate  may  bring  discomfort  to  the  other  — 
But,  in  the  hater,  joy  is  well-nigh  killed. 
And  so  I  will  not  harbor  hate,  nor  hoard  it  — 
I've  learned  my  lesson,  though  perchance  belated. 
The  honest  truth  is  this :     I  can't  afford  it ; 
'Tis  costlier  to  hate  than  to  be  hated. 


115 


SONG  OF  THE  FAMILY  MAN 

I'LL  stick  around.     The  Good  Book  says  that  I 
Must  flock  with  angels  in  the  by  and  by. 
And  if  the  angels  look  like  what  I've  seen 
So  labeled  in  each  book  and  magazine 
That  spoke  of  them,  I'd  rather  have  my  folks 
Than  any  of  those  semi-feathered  mokes. 

I'll  stick  around.     My  people  know  my  faults 

And  make  allowance.     When  my  spirit  vaults 

Into  the  blue  and  starts  to  circulate 

Among  the  flying  brand  of  vertebrate 

That  know  me  not  and  can  not  sin  themselves, 

I'll  wish  me  back  upon  the  gray  stone  shelves 

Inside  the  mausoleum,  or  with  those 

Who  used  to  know  me  in  my  working  clothes. 

I'll  stick  around.     That  is,  if  angels  seem 

Like  those  oft  pictured  from  the  artist's  dream. 

I  can  not  say  I  gladly  look  ahead 

To  changing  company  when  I  am  dead. 

God  is  as  good  as  I  could  wish  Him,  when 

He  sends  me  home  to  wife  and  kids  again. 


116 


THE  BOOK  FOR  ALL  TIME 


never  was  a  trouble  yet,"  I've  heard 
my  mother  say, 
"  That  wasn't  mentioned  in  this  Book  I  study 

every  day. 

There  never  was  a  crisis  in  a  human  life,  I'm  sure, 
But  had  its  prototype  in  this  —  the  Book  that  must 
endure." 

She  doesn't  say  things  to  me  now  —  that  mother 

wise  of  mine  — 
At  least  not  with  the  sort  of  voice  she  did.     But 

clear  and  fine 
I  hear  her  admonitions  just  as  plainly  now  as 

when 
She  read  to  me  the  same  old  things,  again  and  yet 

again, 

I  didn't  know  it  sank  so  deep  —  the  wisdom  she 

imparted. 
It  took  the  years  —  relentless  years  that  left  me 

heavier-hearted  — 
To  show  me  how  her  words  and  voice  I  thought  I 

slightly  heeded 
Were  stored  to  give  my  later  life  the  things  it 

sorely  needed. 

And  now  when,  in  a  hotel  room,  I  take  the  little 

Book 
The  Gideons  —  God  bless  them  !  —  gave,  I  rever- 

ently look 

117 


Through  page  on  page  and  find  therein,  to  my  pro- 
found surprise, 

Full  proof,  through  this  great  wonder  Book,  that 
God's  all-seeing  eyes 

Foresaw  that  day  —  that  very  day  that  was  so  new 

to  me, 
And  had  discoursed,  through  minds  inspired,  on 

all  that  I  should  be 
And  do,  throughout  the  crisis  that  had  seemed  to 

me  unique ! 
How  marvelously  down  the  years  those  wondrous 

pages  speak! 

And,  strangely,  things  I  read  in  there  sound  dif- 
ferent, somehow, 

From  ordinary  printed  stuff.  And  hence  my  little 
vow 

That  I,  both  for  my  mother's  sake,  and  for  my 
own  sake  too, 

Will  search  the  Scriptures  every  day  —  they  tell 
me  what  to  do ! 


118 


THE  EXCEPTION 

T  \  THEN  the  world  is  bright  and  sunny  and  he's 

»   »         feeling  blithe  and  gay, 
He's  his  daddy's  constant  shadow  from  the  dawn 

till  closing  day. 
When  his  face  is  wreathed  with  dimples  and  his 

heart  is  singing  loud 
Why,  his  father  is  a  monarch  with  immortal  traits 

endowed. 
Not  another  human  creature  is  essential  to  his 

joy— 

He  will  tell  you  any  moment  that  he's  "  Fawer's 

only  boy." 
But  'tis  quite  another  story  when  there's  sorrow 

with  the  lad, 
For  he  always  wants  his  mother  when  he's  sick  or 

when  he's  bad ! 

Father's  good  enough  in  sunshine ;  but  the  coming 
of  the  storm 

Brings  a  hunger  for  the  hugging  that  is  gentle, 
soft  and  warm; 

Brings  a  need  for  tender  croonings  and  the  sooth- 
ing "  Never  minds  " 

That,  excepting  in  a  mother's  arms,  no  human 
ever  finds. 

So  he  turns  his  back  on  father  —  can  not  see  him 
for  a  minute 

When  his  over-arching  baby  sky  has  clouds  of 
trouble  in  it. 

119 


"When  the  birds  are  singing  sweetly  he's  forever 

tagging  dad, 
But  he  always  wants  his  mother  when  he's  sick  or 

when  he's  bad. 


120 


THE  NEARER  LOVES 

YOU   ask  me :     "  Are  the  journeys  hard  ? " 
And  "  Does  the  time  seem  long  ? " 
You  marvel  that,  though  travel-worn,  I  lift  my 

voice  in  song. 
The  waits  are  weary,  food  ill-cooked,  the  beds  give 

fitful  rest. 

Yet  do  I  bear  it  cheerfully  and  labor  on  with  zest. 
You  wonder  why  —  I'll  tell  you,  friend,  how  such 

a  thing  may  be: 
I  have  a  love  that  comes  between  my  selfish  self 

and  me. 


My  own  discomfort  grieves  me  not  while  letters 

from  my  flock 
Proclaim  their  vital  welfare.     I  can  bear  each 

brunt  and  shock 
With  fortitude  and  laughter  if  the  ones  I  leave  at 

home 
Are  well  in  mind  and  body  while  their  guardian's 

a-roam. 
Their  joy  is  vastly  dearer  than  my  own  can  ever 

be  — 
That  love's  so  close  it  lies  between  my  inmost  self 

and  me. 

God  pity  him  who  has  himself  alone  to  fret  about ! 
With  nothing  sweet  between  him  and  the  cares  that 
flail  and  flout. 

121 


His  room  is  cold,  his  food  is  bad,  his  train  is  cruel 
late  — 

He  stands  the  gaff  unarmored  and  bewails  his  bit- 
ter fate. 

But  I,  if  all  go  well  at  home,  am  happy  as  can  be, 

And  thank  the  Lord  for  love  that  lies  between  my- 
self and  me. 


122 


"A2STD  SHUT  THY  BOOK" 

"But  thou,  when  thou  prayest,  enter  into  thy 
closet  and  shut  thy  door." —  Bible. 

4 '  A  ND  shut  thy  door!  "     How  well  He  knew 

•**  This  human  being  He  had  made! 
When  day's  long  hours  have  harried  you 
At  home  or  in  the  marts  of  trade, 
How  exquisite  your  spirit's  thirst 
To  be  aloof  a  little  while 
From  that  which  frets  and  vexes  worst  — 
The  constant  need  to  beck  and  smile. 

You  are  alone  within  your  room; 
And  yet  your  spirit  craves  still  more 
Assurance  that  no  soul  may  loom 
O'er  your  horizon  — "  shut  thy  door." 
The  sound  of  turning  round  the  key 
Within  the  lock  —  the  balm  it  gives ! 
The  current  of  your  thoughts  flows  free, 
Till  soon  again  your  best  self  lives. 

This  person  and  that  other  drew 
Some  vital  part  of  you  away  — 
They  pulled  and  hauled  and  tortured  you 
Through  all  the  busy,  patient  day. 
This  shut-in  hour  with  none  but  God 
(Who  ne'er  intrudes)  will  soon  restore 
Your  feet  to  paths  in  calmness  trod: 
Enter  your  room  "  and  shut  thy  door." 
123 


IS  IT  LONG? 

4  'TN  two  more  days  I  shall  be  home  again," 
•*•  I  told  my  wide-eyed  baby  boy.     And  then 
Swift,  sob-choked  came  his  question :     "  Is  that 

long?" 

I  held  him  in  my  arms  that  love  made  strong 
And  soothed :     "  To  you,  but  not  to  me,  my  son  — 
It  will  seem  short  to  you  when  it  is  done." 

I  beg  to  know  whence  comes  the  rose's  flame. 
He  whom  we  worldlings  variously  name 
Has  promised  me  that,  when  this  life  is  o'er, 
To  me  He  will  reveal  all  hidden  lore  — 
The  alchemy  of  blossom,  leaf  and  tree 
And  every  other  baffling  mystery. 

My  fretting  magnifies  the  long  delay 

Before  the  dawning  of  my  wiser  day. 

I  voice  the  burden  of  that  baby  song, 

Pleading,  impatient,  "  Father,  is  it  long  ? " 

"  To  you,"  He  smiles,  "  but  not  to  me,  my  son  — 

'Twill  seem  full  short  to  you,  when  life  is  done." 


124 


A  HUMAN  HUNGER 

I  WANTA  dream  o'  floatin'  on  a  big,  pink  cloud 
With  fiddles  singin'  sleepy  an'  a  flute  a-playin' 

loud, 
An'  a  pianner  played  so  soft  you  sometimes  think 

she's  quit  — 

Then  you  would  whisper  to  yourself,  "  Why,  no ! 
She's  playin'  yit !  " 

I  wanta  dream  my  body's  well,  my  whole  self 

feelin'  good  — 
Jest  everything  the  good  Lord  give  me,  workin'  as 

it  should; 
An'  dream  o'  floatin'  high  an'  high  without  no 

skeer  at  tall, 
A-thinkin'  what  a  joke  it  was  that  once  I  feared 

I'd  fall. 

I  wanta  dream  o'  lazy  shine  an'  wind  caressin'  so 
Y'  couldn't  even  wonder  if  it's  warm  enough  er  no. 
An'  most  I'd  dream  of  some  one  feelin'  just  th' 

same  as  me 
A-holt  my  hand  an'  pressin'  jest  as  gentle  as  can 

be  — 

Some  one  that  never  has  to  say  a  single  tender 

word 
But  says  it  always  —  always,   jest   as  plain  as 

singin'  bird. 

125 


I'd  lose  what  trouble's  in  my  heart  an'  all  there 

ever  was  — 
Lord,  how  I  long  for  happiness,  like  everybody 

does! 


126 


"FORGIVE  ME" 

WOULDN'T  it  be  good,  my  brother, 
If  the  sun  could  always  shine  ? 
If  we  lived  for  one  another, 

Wouldn't  every  day  be  fine  ? 
Life  were  sweeter  still,  believe  me, 

Freer  far  from  wails  of  woe 
If  those  simple  words  "  Forgive  me " 
Didn't  choke  a  fellow  so. 

Were  our  lips  not  schooled  to  smother 

All  that's  finest  in  the  heart, 
Wouldn't  it  be  easy,  brother, 

Aye  to  choose  the  better  part  ? 
Oh,  this  world  were  sweet,  believe  me, 

Free  from  bitterness  and  woe 
If  those  blessed  words  "  Forgive  me  " 

Didn't  choke  a  fellow  so. 


127 


THE  HUSBAND'S  INQUISITION 

WHAT  have  I  borne  of  her  sorrows  ? 
What  of  my  pleasures  shared  ? 
Yesterday,  now  and  tomorrow  — 

Long  as  my  life  is  spared, 
These  are  the  questions  I  ask  me, 

Oft  as  I  think  of  her; 

Always  with  this  I  task  me, 

Often  with  eyes  a-blur. 

First  in  my  mind  up-springing, 

When  in  the  night  I  wake, 
Last  through  my  heart-thoughts  winging, 

As  restward  my  way  I  take; 
Always  the  self-same  question, 

Ever  the  wistful  note  — 
Aye  at  its  mere  suggestion, 

Something  obstructs  my  throat. 

Never  a  need  of  saying, 

"  What  has  she  done  for  me  ?  " 
God  —  may  He  heed  my  praying  — 

Knows  what  a  treasure  she. 
This  —  only  this  I'm  asking, 

What  have  I  done  for  her  ? 
Always  my  soul  thus  tasking — ; 

Often  with  eyes  a-blur. 


128 


TO  A  BABY  GIKL 

A  LAMB  born  to  a  world  of  wolves  that  howl 
Upon  your  trail;  that  snarl  and  drool  and 

growl 

To  capture  you  and  gorge  themselves  afresh 
Upon  your  soft,  love-consecrated  flesh. 
A  blossom  blown  for  trampling  under  feet 
Of  vandals  who  desire  your  soul's  defeat. 
Ours  till,  by  winds  of  Time  and  Trouble  hurled, 
You  are  fed,  living,  to  man's  ravening  world. 

Kneeling  or  standing,  all  our  parent  life 

Is  one  blood-sweating  prayer  that  in  the  strife 

Confronting  you,  the  odds  for  right  may  win; 

That  when  the  struggle  ends  you  may  have  been 

Loved  always  with  the  tenderness  that  now 

We  give,  chaste  as  a  sacerdotal  vow. 

But  oh,  the  fires  that  rage  along  your  path 

Where  you  must  dare  your  fellow  beings'  wrath! 

Your  beauty  that  provokes  the  prideful  tear 
In  doting  parent  eyes,  will  bring  the  leer 
Of  fawning  brutes  that  slaver  for  your  life  — 
O  knowledge  that  goes  leaping  like  a  knife 
To  all  our  finest  feelings!     While  you  may, 
Cling  to  the  ones  that  love  you  so  that  they 
Would  gladly  die  —  that  you  be  undefiled  — 
God  keep  you  safe,  O  tender  woman-child! 


129 


THOSE  NIGHTS  OF  BROKEN  SLEEP 

WE  used  to  worry  for  our  children's  sakes  — 
Because  young   Jim  would   carry  garter 

snakes 

In  his  pants  pockets,  and  because  Jemime 
Would  take  the  stairway  two  steps  at  a  time. 

Many  a  night  we've  lain  awake  and  fretted 
Because  our  Angelina,  spoiled  and  petted, 
Threw  oft  her  little  milk  cup  to  the  floor ; 
We  lie  awake  and  fret  o'er  these  no  more. 

For  Jim  is  thirty-eight  and  doesn't  lug 
In  any  pocket  snake  or  worm  or  bug; 
Jemime  was  thirty-five  last  June,  and  weighs 
Two  hundred  —  does  she  skip  the  steps  these  days  ? 

While  Angelina,  thirty-two  or  so, 

Ceased,  decades  since,  her  little  cup  to  throw 

Upon  the  floor Wish  we  had  back  the  sleep 

We  missed  when  o'er  their  faults  we  used  to  weep  I 


130 


THIS  DAY 

THIS  is  bound  to  be  —  well,  say !  — 
One  humdinger  of  a  day! 
It  may  rain,  but  what's  the  diff? 
What  would  happen  to  us  if 
It  should  fail  to  rain  and  then 
Clear  up,  cloud  and  rain  again? 
Whatsoe'er  the  weather  be, 
This  will  prove,  for  you  and  me 
(As  I  started  out  to  say), 
One  dicknailer  of  a  day. 

Ere  the  night  comes  you  will  get 
Hungry,  and  some  meals,  I'll  bet; 
You'll  be  thirsty,  so  I  think, 
And  relieve  that  thirst  with  drink; 
You  will  have  a  chance  to  do 
Favors  for  some  one  whom  you 
Long  have  known  and  owed  a  kindness ; 
You  are  free  from  deafness,  blindness, 
Or,  if  not,  you  feel !     Oh,  say ! 
This  will  be  a  corking  day. 

What  I  mean  to  say  is  this: 
Every  day  has  some  of  bliss. 
Just  endure  with  patient  smile 
Things  that  hurt.     For  after  while 
There  will  come  the  happiness 
That  shall  lighten  your  distress  — * 
131 


Lighten  it?     Nay,  'twill  destroy  it. 
Life  will  change  and  you'll  enjoy  it. 
Every  morning,  just  you  say: 
"  This  will  be  one  bully  day!  " 


132 


"AKE  YOU  THERE?" 

I  LIKE  to  play  close  by  my  father's  den, 
Where  he's  at  work,  and  every  now  and  then 
Ask :     "  Father,  are  you  there  ? "     He  answers 

back: 

"  Yes,  son."     That  time  I  broke  my  railroad  track 
All  into  bits,  he  stopped  his  work  and  came 
And  wiped  my  tears,  and  said :     "  Boy,  boy !     Be 

game ! " 

And  then  he  showed  me  how  to  fix  it  right, 
And  I  took  both  my  arms  and  hugged  him  tight. 

Once,  when  I'd  asked  him  if  he  still  was  there, 
He  called  me  in  and  rumpled  up  my  hair, 
And  said :     "  How  much  alike  are  you  and  I ! 
When  I  feel  just  as  boys  feel  when  they  cry, 
I  call  to  our  Big  Father,  to  make  sure 
That  He  is  there,  my  childish  dread  to  cure. 
And  always,  just  as  I  to  you,  *  Yes,  son/ 
Our  Father  calls,  and  all  my  fret  is  done ! " 


133 


A  CONTIDENTIAL  PKAYEK 

MY   small   deceptions,   Lord  —  you  know  of 
them; 

My  wee  prevarications,  kindness-born  — 
I've  often  thought  You  would  not  quick  condemn 
These,  in  the  awfulness  of  Judgment  Morn. 

Where  truth  can  only  give  a  thrust  and  sting, 
Where  cureless,  needless  hurt  it  must  inflict, 

I  can  not  think  You'll  cavil  till  we  bring 
A  perfect  score  —  You  will  be  just,  not  strict. 

If  love  entice  us  from  the  beaten  trail  — 
True  love,  not  passion,  as  we  read  of  it  — 

If  put  to  test  'twixt  love  and  truth,  we  fail 
The  center  of  truth's  target  aye  to  hit  — 

I  can  not  think  You'll  hold  us  to  account 
For  sacrificing  self  to  save  another 

From  fruitless  sorrow,  e'en  in  small  amount. 
Should  we   love  most  our  conscience  or  our 
brother  ? 


134 


A  GENUINE  MAN 

SOME  days  ago  I  met  a  man  who'd  known 
The  very  best  of  life's  material  things  — 
A  servant-crowded  palace  of  his  own, 
Fine  clothing  —  all  that  lavish  fortune  flings 
Before  the  rich.     And  he  had  lost  it  all, 
Through  fault  of  others.     Yet  his  head  was  high, 
Within  his  spirit  dwelt  no  trace  of  gall, 
A  smile  was  on  his  lips,  his  orbs  were  dry. 

He  welcomed  me  into  his  home  as  though 
It  were  a  grander  palace  —  and  it  was ! 
The  spirit  of  its  tenant  lent  a  glow 
To  everything,  and  hid  whatever  flaws 
There  may  have  been.     Scorning  apologies 
He  welcomed  me  as  but  the  kingly  can. 
That  night  my  soul  got  down  upon  its  knees 
And  thanked  its  God  that  we  had  seen  a  Man! 


135 


A  CONSOLATION 

SOMETIMES  the  beads  of  perspiration  stand 
upon  my  brow 

To  think  how  little  I  have  done  from  birthtime  up 
to  now. 

I  feel  a  rimless  cipher  would  be  great  beside  of 
me  — 

The  depth  of  my  dejection  is  a  painful  thing  to 
see. 

But  I  cheer  up  quite  perceptibly  and  lay  my  grief 
aside 

When  sizing  up  the  pinhead  who  has  grown  self- 
satisfied. 

My  deep  displeasure  with  myself  and  all  that  in 

me  is 
Brings  pain  that's  far  more  poignant  than  a  case 

of  rheumatiz. 

I  see  the  thing  I'd  like  to  be,  which  also  I  am  not, 
And  on  humanity's  fair  page  I  rate  myself  a  blot. 
But  I  am  just  as  proud  as  if  my  royal  name  were 

Guelph 
When  I  observe  the  sort  of  nut  that's  tickled  with 

himself. 


136 


BEWARE! 

MY  frau  was  good  and  healthy  till  the  doctor 
saw  her  tongue 

And  placed  a  rubber  speaking  tube  abaft  her  lee- 
ward lung. 
Since  then  she's  scarcely  able  to  get  up  and  do 

her  work 
At  which  she  once  went  blithely  as  the  (purely 

fabled)  Turk. 
She  has  a  dozen  symptoms  that  she  didn't  know 

she  had  — 
Some  days  she's  quite  a  little  worse,  and  other 

days  just  bad. 
I  wish  from  out  my  heart  of  hearts  she  hadn't  had 

the  time 
To  see  that  blooming  doctor  man  who  turned  her 

bones  to  lime. 

My  little  girl  was  normal  till  by  chance  a  word  was 
dropped 

In  question  of  her  eye-sight  —  then  her  happiness 
was  stopped. 

We  took  her  to  a  specialist  who  found  her  lamps 
were  mixed  — 

It  took  a  week  and  twenty-seven  bones  to  get  her 
fixed. 

The  boy  one  day  had  sniffles,  but  was  happy  as  a 
king  — 

The  doctor  called  it  adenoids  and,  proud  as  any- 
thing, 

137 


He  chopped  them  out  with  tailors'  shears,  and  now 

we  have  to  watch 
The  little  fellow  like  a  hawk,  his  throat  is  such  a 

botch. 

I'm  feeling  well,  can  see  a  mile  to  read  a  fair- 
sized  print. 

My  hearing  is  as  keen  as  keen  —  I've  never  had 
a  hint 

Of  bother  with  my  senses  —  all  the  five  are  work- 
ing well, 

But  would  I  see  a  doctor  with  skilled  services  to 
sell? 

!N"ot  on  your  latest  tin-type !  For  he'd  find  I  had 
the  pip, 

Sciatic  rheumatism  and  congenital  bum  hip. 

And  though  I  clearly  see  and  hear,  I  bet  a  horse 
he'd  find 

That  I'd  been  deaf  for  seven  years  and  for  a  dec- 
ade blind! 


138 


THE  YOUNG-OLDS 

WE  are  the  army  of  young-old  men ; 
Men  who  have  served  the  race, 
Graying,  with  wrinkling  face  — 
Served  for  a  whole  generation,  and  then 
Started  to  serve  through  another  again. 
Faithful,  else  you  should  have  set  us  adrift 
Long  ere  this  protest  we  earnestly  lift. 

We  are  the  army  of  young-old  men  — 

Likely  to  live  a  score 

Or  better,  of  good  years  more. 
Young  in  our  hearts  as  our  heads  were  when 
First  we  enlisted,  and  wiser  than  then  — 

Fitter  to  serve  than  we  ever  have  been. 

Graying  of  hair  —  is  it  pardonless  sin  ? 

We  are  the  army  of  young-old  men  — 

!N"or  pension  nor  alms  we  ask, 

Only  a  whole  man's  task, 
Paid  what  we  earn  —  are  we  asking  for  more  3 
Shall  we,  like  offal,  be  thrown  to  the  floor, 

Swept  to  the  rubbish-heap  —  carted  away 

Long  ere  the  close  of  our  usef ulest  day  ? 


139 


LIFE'S  ANESTHETIC 

TK  7HEKEVER  I  am  spirit-worn,  and  feel 
»   »         Double  the  weight  of  years  that  have 

been  mine, 
I  do  not  let  my  heart  —  the  coward !  —  steal 

Off  to  some  mountain  lake  with  marge  of  pine 
And  lichened  cliffs.     I  find  it  sweeter  far 

To  think  of  some  one  burdened  worse  than  I 

And  write  him  things  to  keep  hope's  steady  star 

Before  his  care-fagged,  trouble-jaundiced  eye. 

Ere  I  have  written  him  a  dozen  lines 

Of  gentle  frivol,  masking  sympathy, 
Songs  sweeter  than  the  wind  hymn  in  the  pines 

Have  sung  themselves  into  the  soul  of  me. 
For  never  better  way  has  been  invented 

To  keep  lives  to  love's  lambent  lodestar  true 
Than  helping  other  souls  to  feel  contented 

Till  their  reflected  radiance  shine  on  you. 


140 


WHAT  WE  PRAY  FOR 

WE  blather  'round  a  lot,  and  ask 
The  Lord  to  tackle  many  a  task 
We  don't  expect  to  have  Him  tackle. 
Much  of  such  "  prayer  "  is  mere  lip-cackle 
And  doesn't  even  echo,  in 
The  heart,  where  all  true  prayers  begin. 

We've  formed  some  habits  in  the  line 
Of  praying.     Hypocritic  whine 
And  innocently  vain  pretense 
We  offer  up  —  spoiled  frankincense 
And  some  adulterated  myrrh  — 
No  miracles  thus  asked  occur. 

But  all  the  while  our  lips  are  praying, 
Our  far-sincerer  minds  are  staying 
Right  on  the  job  and  struggling  stoutly 
Producing  prayers  we  mean  devoutly 
Although  there  is  no  vocal  word 
That  could  by  sharpest  ears  be  heard. 

The  prayers  we  offer  thus  are  answered  — 
The  others  never  pass  the  mansard 
On  their  intended  upward  flight 
Although  we  yelp  with  all  our  might. 
The  things  we  do  just  all  we  may  for, 
And  scheme  and  struggle  day  by  day  for  — 
Those  are  the  things  we  really  pray  for. 

141 


A  BABY'S  SORROW 

BEFORE  the  shining  grief  drop  from  his  eye 
Could  course  the  rosy  distance  of  his  cheek, 
A  quick  smile  dug  a  dimple,  deep  and  dry, 
To  which  the  hot  tear  turned  —  a  briny  creek  — 
And  formed  a  lake  with  velvet  shores  around, 
In  which  the  baby's  sorrow  all  was  drowned. 


143 


THE  "  SACREDISTESS  "  OF  SOME 

MOTHERHOOD 

• 

SHE  sat  behind  me  in  the  train 
The  while  I  doped  my  wearied  brain 
With  fiction  up  to  date  and  rank  — 
Mouthings  of  some  "  eugenics  "  crank 
Or  other  gouger  after  slime 
Such  as  we  find  in  this  our  time 
When  magazines,  in  prose  or  rhyme, 
Run  correspondence  schools  in  crime. 

She  was  a  straight  out  hoi  polloi, 
With  three  girls  and  a  baby  boy, 
All  whom  she  fed  on  home-fried  dope 
From  that  gray  canvas  telescope  — 
Doughnuts  (called  "fried  cakes")  petrified, 
With  embalmed  chicken  on  the  side, 
And  when  each  child  had  filled  his  hide 
He  held  his  outraged  turn  and  cried. 


And  then  that  sainted  mother  said, 
While  whacking  Chester  on  the  head: 
"  Don't  yowl !     'F  you  holler  when  I  hit  you 
That  there  conductor  man'll  git  you! 
Hyer,  nigger  man,  come  git  this  feller  — 
He'll  cut  your  ears  off  if  you  beller  " — 
At  which  the  poor  wee,  frightened  yeller 
Grew  dumb  as  once  was  Helen  Keller. 


143 


Lie  after  lie  she  told  those  brats: 
The  colored  porter'd  get  their  hats; 
The  brakeman'd  throw  them  off  the  train 
Into  Missouri's  mud  and  rain. 
But  pretty  soon  each  pain-filled  crier 
(Bound  for  St.  Louis  and  their  sire — ) 
Got  yelling  like  a  house  afire  — 
They'd  learned  that  mama  was  a  liar! 


144 


LIFE'S  OTHER  DIMENSIONS 

T1I7E  prate  about  our  "length  of  days"  as 
»  »  though  life  had  but  one  dimension; 

We  dope  and  hope  and  otherwise  confront  death 
with  a  fierce  contention. 

We  seem  to  think  that  if  we  stretch  our  earth  ex- 
istence to  its  utmost, 

That  we  have  truly  lived  the  most;  that  of  life's 
precious  ice  we've  cut  most. 

But  this  we  ought  to  recollect,  when  fighting  off 
death-threatening  sickness : 

Pay  less  attention  to  life's  length,  and  more  unto 
her  breadth  and  thickness. 

Methuselah   lived   an   awful   span,   counting   by 

month  and  day  and  second. 
But  I've  a  hunch  that  in  the  end  that's  not  the 

way  our  lives  are  reckoned. 
I'm  pretty  sure  that  cubics  count  —  that  life  is 

more  than  linear  measure ; 
That  'tis  achievement,  not  mere  time,  that  will  be 

listed  as  our  treasure. 
So  it  were  well  to  keep  in  mind,  when  dodging 

death  with  wondrous  quickness, 
Life  holds  a  lot  besides  its  length  —  it  ought  to 

have  some  breadth  and  thickness. 


145 


THEN  AND  NOW 

THE  thing  that  once  disturbed  me  day  by  day 
Was  having  baby  leave  his  little  play 
In  which  I  thought  him  thoroughly  absorbed, 
And  burst  into  my  workroom,  dewy-orbed, 
To  sob  out  all  the  griefs  that  might  befall 
Him  in  his  sandpile  by  the  garden  wall. 

If  wealth  were  mine,  what  would  I  not  give  now, 
Since  time  has  far  more  deeply  graved  my  brow, 
If  still  he  had  no  care  he  might  not  bring 
Here  to  my  desk,  and-  tell  me  everything ! 


146 


THE  UNIVERSAL  LESSON 

MY  train  pours  on  through  the  night's  black 
sieve  — 

I  feel  her  rumble  and  swerve  and  give. 
Yet  she  clings  to  the  rails,  by  laws  divine 
Applied  by  cannier  hands  than  mine. 
And  she  lulls  me  to  sleep  with  her  rhythmic  flow : 
"  Somebody  —  knows  something  —  that  I  —  don't 
know." 

•  ••*••• 

I  raise  my  gaze  to  the  stars  at  night, 

Lending  through  legions  of  leagues  their  light. 

Amazed  I  murmur :     "  And  yet  I  see 

The  meagerest  marge  of  immensity !  " 

And  then  I  whisper,  with  head  bent  low : 

"  Some  One  knows  something  that  I  don't  know !  " 


147 


WHEN"  FATHER  COOKS 

BETWEEN"  new  cooks  at  our  house, 
Since  mother's  foot  is  hurt, 
Our  father  says :     "  We'll  have  to  browse 

Awhile  without  a  '  skirt.' ' 
He  tells  us  how  he  used  to  cook 

When  camping  with  some  guys, 
And  says  that  he  could  write  a  book 
On  boils  and  broils  and  fries. 

Then  he  starts  in  to  fix  the  grub, 

Beginning  with  some  bacon, 
Till  mother  says:     "My  gracious,  hub, 

Why  all  this  smudge  you're  makin'  ?  " 
He  salts  the  oatmeal  when  it's  done, 

He  burns  the  eggs  he's  frying, 
And  "  uses  butter  by  the  ton," 

So  mother  says,  half  crying. 

He  starts  some  toast,  then  calls  to  mind 

The  table  isn't  set. 
Then,  smelling  something,  runs  to  find 

The  stuff  is  black  as  jet ! 
By  time  a  meal  is  all  prepared 

Nobody's  game  to  eat  it. 
Then  father  says :     "  I  can't  be  spared 

Downtown  —  I've  got  to  beat  it." 


148 


BEFOKE  —  AND  THEN 

HE  used  to  prove,  beyond  the  last  frail  doubt, 
That,  when  life's  feeble  candle  had  burnt 

out  — 

Taking  with  it  the  spirit  we  had  known  — 
That  which  remained  was  but  a  clod,  a  stone, 
Or  any  other  soulless  thing  we  knew  — 
Faultless  his  logic,  so  we  deemed  it  true. 

Years  came  to  him,  with  love  and  all  it  brings  — 
Wife  and  some  children.     One,  on  angel  wings, 
Fled  ere  a  year  he'd  nestled  in  the  heart 
Of  our  wise  friend.     Today  I  saw  him  start 
Upon  a  little,  day-long  business  trip  — 
He  hid  a  baby's  scuffed  shoe  in  his  grip. 


149 


THE  VITAL  ACCOMPANIMENT 

THE  wise  admonition  goes  deeper,  they  say, 
If  you  smile  when  you  give  it. 
Your  righteous  life  lures  other  feet  to  the  Way 

If  you  smile  while  you  live  it. 
The  word  of  good  cheer  finds  the  heart  you  had 

meant  — 

Sinks  into  the  spirit  to  which  it  was  sent  — 
Lends  all  of  the  help  it  was  meant  to  have  lent 
If  you  smile  when  you  give  it. 

The  money  you  handed  that  brother  in  need  — 

Did  you  smile  when  you  gave  it? 
His  pride  may  have  hurt  till  it  made  his  heart 
bleed  — 

Nought  but  smiling  could  save  it. 
Not  an  impudent  smirk  or  a  meaningless  grin, 
Not  a  smile  just  as  deep  as  your  outermost  skin  — 
But  a  love-laden  smile,  with  sweet  confidence  in  — 

That  will  help  him  to  brave  it. 


150 


"NOT  WORTH  FOOLING  WITH" 

TJI7HAT  __«  Hfe  is  not  worth  fooling  with  ?  " 

You're  right,  my  lad,  you're  right! 
Just  spread  that  doctrine  far  and  wide,  and  spread 

it  with  your  might. 
Life  never  is  worth  "  fooling  with  " —  this  is  the 

truth  you're  giving. 
It  isn't  worth  the  "  fooling  with,"  but  it's  wholly 

worth  the  living ! 

You  say  it's  "  not  worth  fooling  with  " —  the  task 

assigned  to  you. 
You're  right  again,  impatient  lad;  the  thing  you 

say  is  true. 
Perhaps  not  in  the  sense  you  mean  —  if  so,  there's 

trouble  brewing. 
Your  job  is  not  worth  "  fooling  with,"  but  it's 

surely  worth  the  doing! 

No,  tasks  are  not  worth  "  fooling  with  " — 'tis  not 
what  tasks  were  made  for. 

You  must  not  fool  with  them  at  all  •• —  that's  not 
what  you  are  paid  for. 

The  best  that's  in  you,  body,  soul  and  mind,  you 
should  be  giving 

To  what  your  hands  have  found  to  do  —  not  "  fool- 
ing"—  toiling,  living! 


151 


TO  THE  LOW-BROW 

high-brow  puts  his  pince-nez  on 
•»•    And  looks  you  over  pro  and  con, 
To  make  sure  whether  he  approves. 
But  never  toward  his  pocket  moves 
His  stingy  hand.     He  gives  to  you 
The  stern  once-over.     When  he's  through 
You're  just  as  rich  as  when  he  started  — 
From  nothing  worth  your  while  he's  parted. 

The  low-brow  takes  a  look  and  grunts: 
"  That  gink  pulls  off  some  clever  stunts. 
I'll  follow  what  he  does  or  writes." 
He  keeps  his  promise  and  invites 
His  fellow  low-brows  to  produce 
Such  current  coin  as  they  have  loose, 
Helping  the  fellow  they  admire 
To  higher  levels  to  aspire. 

I  love  the  high-brow ;  his  O.  K. 
Is  worth  my  struggle,  any  day. 
But  what  on  earth  would  we  folks  do 
Who  have  to  eat  a  bite  or  two 
And  wear  some  clothing  now  and  then 
If  high-brows  formed  the  world  of  men  ? 
The  low-brow's  knowledge  may  be  trash, 
But  he  backs  up  his  smile  with  cash. 


152 


Then  here's  to  the  high-brow, 
Who  bleeds  us, 
God-speed  us, 
And  leads  us 

To  pity  the  freak  that  succeeds  us. 

But  here's  to  the  low-brow, 
Who  needs  us, 
And  reads  us, 
And  heeds  us, 
And  feeds  us ! 


153 


A  DEFI  TO  TROUBLE 

COME,  Trouble !     Let  me  take  your  hat 
And  make  you  comfy  by  the  fire. 
There,  in  that  chair  where  oft  has  sat 

Your  grandsire  and  his  grandsire's  sire, 
Take  ease.     You're  not  the  first,  you  see, 

I've  known  of  your  poor-witted  clan 
That  came  to  flout  and  pester  me  — 
I  am  a  trouble-hardened  man. 

You  cannot  bring  a  hurt  so  deep  — 

Unless  I  join  my  will  with  yours  — 
As  to  keep  off  my  restful  sleep 

Behind  kind  night's  firm-bolted  doors. 
You  cannot  bring  a  grief  'twill  last 

Through  many  of  life's  changing  years — • 
I've  known  your  forbears  in  the  past 

And  given  them  all  my  surplus  fears. 

And  thus  —  O  trouble,  but  I'm  glad 

You  came  to-day !  •• —  always  have  come 
Some  of  your  tribe,  with  story  sad, 

With  countenances  dour  and  glum, 
Upon  the  eve  of  blessings  rich 

That  marked  an  onward  step  for  me  — 
Come,  rest  within  my  ingle  niche, 

O  harbinger  of  good-to-be ! 


154 


A  SUMMER  OCCUPATION 

LOOKING    through    the    swaying    tops    of 
maples  at  the  sky, 
Watching  while  the  fleecy  clouds  in  phalanxes  go 

by; 

Dreaming  wide-eyed  visions  as  I  stare  into  the 

blue  — 
Dreaming  dreams  far  sweeter  than   all  earthly 

things  but  you. 
Resting  when  my  soul  had  felt  it  ne'er  could  rest 

again ; 
Spirit  goes  a-soaring,  myriad  million  miles  from 

men  — 
Gazing  at  the  leaf-splotched  dome  while  shining 

clouds  drift  by  — 
Looking  through  the  swaying  tops  of  maples  at 

the  sky. 

Underneath  the  maple  on  a  comforter  or  two, 
Peering,  peering  tirelessly  through  emerald  at  the 

blue, 
Body  resting  prone  upon  the  earth  that  bore  us 

all  — 
Care  and  fret  and  heartache  have  departed  past 

recall. 
Downy  pillow  'neath  my  head  with  fingers  laced 

above, 
Dreaming  things  tremendously  less  turbulent  than 

love; 

155 


Sweet  as  love  for  children  when  in  arms  asleep 

they  lie  — 
Looking  through  the  swaying  tops  of  maples  at 

the  sky. 

When  I  get  to  heaven  and  my  time  has  come  to 

choose 
What  through  all  the  endless  years  my  spirit  shall 

amuse, 
I  shall  shun  the  twanging  harp,  the  viol  and  the 

lute, 
Shun  the  lyre  and  psalter  and  the  sweetly  sobbing 

flute. 
'Stead  of  that  I'll  pick  me  out  a  thick-topped  maple 

tree, 

Get  a  soft  old  pillow  and  a  comforter  and  —  gee ! 
Won't  I  simply  revel  while  eternity  drifts  by  — 
Looking  through  the  tracery  of  maples  at  the  sky  ? 


156 


COMRADESHIP 

BRAIN'S  are  infectious.     When  some  bright 
soul's  by 

To  catch  your  scintillations  on  the  fly, 
How   quicker   jumps   your   mind   from   this   to 

that, 
Your  thoughts,  how  accurate,  your  words,  how 

pat! 

You  have  the  blessed  consciousness  that  if 
By  chance  you  should  hand  out  a  verbal  biff 
That  struck  the  bull's-eye,  it  should  not  escape 
And  make  you  feel  like  donning  mental  crepe. 

Like  some  small,   timorous  child  whose  father 

stands 

And  holds  invitingly  two  love-strong  hands 
To  catch  him  when  he  jumps,  your  mind  fears  not 
To  leap  —  it  knows  full  well  it  will  be  "  got." 
Turn  intellectual  flip-flaps  as  you  may, 
The  other's  thought  meets  your  bright  thought  half 

way; 

Breaks  every  fall  for  you,  and  courage  lends 
To    higher    flights  —  such    folk    are    God-made 

friends ! 

But  oh,  to  strike  a  bonehead  who  requires 
A  diagram  whene'er  your  mind  aspires 
To  use  a  word  from  either  side  the  rut 
Our  small  talk  runs  in  —  to  unearth  a  <{  nut " 
157 


To  whom  we  must  explain  ...  ye  gods,  ye  gods ! 
When  one  is  thus  beset,  let's  hope  Jove  nods ! 
For  in  one  hour  with  such  a  human  chasm 
One's  gray-stuff  retrogrades  to  protoplasm. 


158 


WHAT  VERDICT? 

<  <T  LIED  to  save  the  one  I  love." 

•*•       How  I  should  like  to  hide  and  hear 

The  verdict  of  the  One  above 

iWhen  this  comes  to  His  righteous  ear. 

"  False  witness  thou  shalt  never  bear 
Against  thy  neighbor  " —  yes,  "  against." 

Search  through  the  Scriptures  everywhere 
Till  o'er  and  o'er  you've  recommenced 

And  recompleted  every  line 

Within  the  sacred  pages  hid, 
And  you  have  better  eyes  than  mine 

If  love's  deceiving  is  forbid. 

"  I  lied  to  save  the  one  I  love." 

I  do  not  say  it  is  not  sin. 
I'd  like  to  hear  when  He  above 

Brings  His  mistakeless  verdict  in. 


159 


CONCENTRATION 

thing  I  do  was  never  done  before. 
X        There  is  no  other  place  in  all  the  earth. 
There  is,  besides  myself,  no  human  more 

That  ever  thanked  his  Maker  for  his  birth. 
I  and  the  thing  I  do  are  everything 

That  is  or  was  or  will  be  'neath  the  sun  — 
There  is  no  sun  across  the  sky  a-swing, 
Nor  will  be  till  this  task  in  hand  is  done. 

Thus,  fenced  off  from  the  universe,  you  see 

The  stint,  clear-eyed,  unhampered  by  tradition ; 
See  things  as  God  intended  them  to  be, 

No  other  mind  dictating  your  position. 
Through  just  such  means  as  this  comes  all  the  help 

The  world  receives  to  lift  it  from  a  rut ; 
The  State  Ship's  keel  is  cleared  of  clustered  kelp 

And  doors  swing  wide  that  custom  had  marked 
"  Shut." 


160 


HIS  DOLLAR 

IN"  the  pocket  of  his  waist  is  a  dollar,  safe  and 
sound, 
Wrapped  up  in  an  envelope,  with  his  handkerchief 

around. 
When  he's  gone  to  bed  at  night  and  he's  'most 

asleep,  he'll  say 
"  Where's  my  dollar  —  are  you  sure  it  is  safely  put 

away  ? " 
Walking  with  me  down  the  street,  when  he  stooped 

to  tie  his  shoe 
Out  upon  the  pavement  fell  his  big  dollar  bright 

and  new. 
But  we  got  it  back  again  ere  it  found  the  grimy 

ditch 
And  once  more  he  wrapped  it  up  and  just  went  on 

feeling  rich. 

He  has  told  me  what  he'll  buy  with  his  dollar, 

pretty  soon. 
He  will  buy  a  motor  boat  and  will  take  me,  some 

forenoon, 
"  'Cross  the  ocean  to  the  place  where  the  King  of 

Europe  is." 
There  is  nothing  he  can't  do  with  that  boundless 

wealth  of  his. 
He  is  mine  and  dear  to  me,  and  no  joy  from  him 

I'd  keep, 
Yet  some  night  when  he's  in  bed  wrapped  in  sweet 

and  dreamless  sleep 
161 


I  would  rob  that  child  of  mine  of  his  dollar,  if  I 

knew 
I  could  steal,  along  with  it,  his  belief  in  what 

'twould  do. 


162 


BROTHER'S  FAULTS 

BROTHER  has  a  lot  of  faults  that  distress  me 
so: 

T'other  day  he  purposely  whacked  me  on  the  toe. 
'Nother  time  he  dumped  my  things  out  my  dolly's 

trunk, 

Ya-in'  at  me  when  I  cried,  said  'twas  "  only  junk." 
Playin'  golden  pavement,  why  he  all  th'  time  stays 

"it"— 

Gets  right  in  our  way  until  he  simply  must  get  hit. 
Don't  know  what  to  do  with  him  —  bothers  us  to 

death. 
Even  worser  when  we  scold  —  just  a  waste  o' 

breath ! 

Brother  waits  until  we  start  playin'  dolls,  an'  then 
He  comes  there  an'  spoils  th'  game  —  mercy  me, 

these  men! 
Mocks  us  when  we  play  grown-up,   strews  our 

dresses  'round, 

Scattering  our  sewing  things  all  about  th'  ground ! 
Leaves  my  playthings  that  he  gets,  all  night  in  the 

dew  — 
Left  my  picture-puzzle,  once  —  soaked  it  through 

an'  through. 
'Fraid  if  he  keeps  getting  worse  he  will  land  in 

jail  — 
And  the  very  worst  of  all,  he's  a  tattle-tale ! 


163 


CHILDKEN  ALL 

rilHEY  are  pot-valiant  all  the  garish  day 
A    And  treat  us  parents  with  mere  toleration  — 
Wearing  the  clothes  for  which  we  have  to  pay, 
Eating  the  food  we  buy  through  tribulation. 
But  as  the  night  draws  on  they  closer  creep, 
And  reach  out  hands  to  us  for  reassurance  ; 
They  snuggle  close  to  us  when  they're  asleep  — 
Child-courage  in  the  dark  has  no  endurance. 

No  need  to  pen  another  line  to  show  it  — 

The  likeness  to  our  attitude  to  Him 

Who  guards  us  through  the  dark  —  all  children 
know  it !  — 

And  when  with  tears  of  doubt  our  eyes  grow  dim. 

Our  troubles  gone  —  we  strut  and  think  us  fear- 
less, 

Laugh  at  our  night-time  qualms,  and  proudly 
stand. 

But  darkness  finds  us  timorous  and  cheerless 

And  groping  for  a  strong,  protecting  Hand. 


164 


BOY  DREAMS 

THE  boy  is  trifling  idly  with  a  stick  and  piece 
of  string, 

But  you  can't  tell  what  he's  dreaming  all  the  while. 
His  boyish  fancy  soars  upon  a  strong  and  fearless 

wing, 

And  you  can't  tell  what  he's  dreaming  all  the  while. 
Some  day  the  world  may  stand  aghast  with  wonder 

and  amaze, 
May  rend  the  very  firmament  with  sycophantic 

praise 
For  ill  or  good  that  must  result  from  these,  his 

dreaming  days  — 
JsTo,  you  can't  tell  what  he's  dreaming  all  the  while. 

He  whistles  tunelessly  and  shrill  and  swings  upon 

the  gate, 

But  you  can't  tell  what  he's  dreaming  as  he  swings. 
His  thinking's  culmination  may  decide  a  nation's 

fate, 
For  we  can't  tell  what  he's  dreaming  while  he 

swings. 
He  may  lay  the  dream  away  until  some  unborn, 

crucial  year ; 
He  may  hide  it  till  the  dawning  of  another  era's 

here; 
But  'tis  living,   strength'ning,   growing,   and  its 

fruitage  must  appear  — 

No,  we  know  not  what  he's  dreaming  as  he  swings. 
165 


'Tis  formless  yet  and  vague  past  wish  or  power  to 
express ; 

None  may  fathom  where  his  fateful  fancy  gropes. 

It  lies,  mayhap,  far,  far  beneath  his  boyish  con- 
sciousness, 

Yet  its  spell  is  strong  upon  him  when  he  "  mopes." 

It  may  miss  its  full  fruition  —  bolder  dreamers 
may  prevail; 

It  may  end  in  disappointment  —  even  dearest 
dreams  may  fail ; 

But  forever  there  in  Boyland  every  dream-craft  is 
a-sail ; 

In  those  dreams  live  all  earth's  dangers  —  and  her 
hopes ! 


166 


THE  KEENEST  PLEASUEE 

WE  are  so  built,  we  human  things, 
That  we  may  touch  joy's  deepest  springs 
Now  and  again.     We  should  be  glad 
That  real  pleasure  may  be  had 
From  our  accomplishment  of  what 
Our  brains  conceived,  our  two  hands  wrought. 
But  still  the  finest  joy,  indeed, 
Is  seeing  some  one  else  succeed. 

'Tis  only  now  and  then  that  we 

Can  bring  the  longed-for  thing  to  be 

That  we  ourselves  had  planned  and  dreamed, 

That  we  had  plotted  for  and  schemed. 

So  if  our  only  triumphs  come 

When  we  have  crowned  with  doing,  some 

Of  our  own  plans,  we  miss  a  lot 

Of  earthly  joy  we  might  have  got! 

For  all  the  time  some  one's  succeeding 

In  some  great  thing  that  had  been  breeding 

In  mind  and  soul  of  him ;  and  so 

A  sympathetic  joy  we  know 

When  he  brings  triumph  out  of  chaos 

And  with  his  vict'ry  song  would  stay  us. 

This  makes  of  earth  a  Neighborhood 

Our  joy  when  some  one  else  makes  good. 


167 


THE  NIGHTLY  TRANSFER 

I  GO  to  sleep  in  Brother's  bed; 
'Cause  when  his  "Now  I  lay  me"  's 

said 

(He's  two  years  littler  yet  than  me) 
He's  just  as  bad  as  he  can  be 
Unless  somebody  stays  with  him. 
So  Mother  makes  the  light  all  dim 
And  leaves  us  there.     I  always  think 
I'll  stay  awake  and  never  blink. 
And  then  I  shut  my  eyes  a  bit  — 
They  always  ache  so,  and  won't  quit ! 

But  Mother  knows,  some  way  or  other. 
She  tells  me :     "  Lie  to  right  of  Brother, 
So  when  your  father  comes  to  do 
The  transfer  act  you're  right-end-to, 
And  he  can  lift  you  as  you  are 
And  lay  you  down  without  a  jar." 

And,  sure  enough,  next  thing  I  know 
It's  morning  and  the  roosters  crow, 
And  I'm  in  bed,  somehow  or  other, 
All  by  myself  and  not  with  Brother  1 


168 


ASLEEP  AMONG  HIS  TOYS 

T  POUND  my  babe  asleep  among  his  toys. 
•*•     A  quarter-hour  I'd  missed  his  jocund  noise 
And  wondered  what  so  quieted  the  lad, 
Saying:     "He's  never  still  unless  he's  bad." 
But  when  I  tiptoed  in  —  Love's  stealthy  spy  — 
A  touching  picture  met  my  doting  eye : 
One  hand  lay  on  the  engine  of  his  train, 
The  other  grasped  a  tiny  aeroplane: 
Upon  his  face  a  world-old  look  of  care  — 
Mankind  in  miniature  lay  dreaming  there! 

I  lifted  him  and  hugged  him  to  my  breast, 
Kissed  him,  and  laid  him  gently  down  to  rest 
Upon  a  couch.     The  weary  limbs  relaxed ; 
The  puckered  brow,  with  wondering  overtaxed, 
Released  its  troubled  frown ;  and  with  a  sigh 
Of  deep  relief  he  slumbered  on.     While  I, 
With  murmured  words  of  choking  tenderness, 
Smoothed  his  warm  cheek,  his  hands,  his  wrinkled 

dress  — 

Did  all  the  things  we  love-mad  parents  do  — 
Old,  old  caresses  that  are  ever  new. 

Sometime  the  great,  kind  Father  of  us  all, 
Noting  we  make  no  answer  to  His  call, 
Tiptoeing  in  to  where  we've  been  at  play 
Through  all  the  hours  of  our  allotted  day, 
Will  find  us  'mid  our  playthings,  fast  asleep, 
Our  toys  about  us  in  a  tumbled  heap, 
169 


Each  weary  hand  upon  a  trinket  laid  — 
Some  phantom  hope  born  in  the  marts  of  trade. 
Then,  in  His  arms,  the  cares  our  hearts  possessed 
Will  yield  their  place  to  sweet  and  dreamless  rest. 


170 


TWO  WOMEN 

IACH  day  she  spoils  her  happiness 

By  picking  out  the  hardest  thing 
For  her  to  get  —  a  snowy  dress 

Upon  her  child  who  loves  to  fling 
Dust  by  the  handfuls  in  the  air 

And  grime  himself ;  a  special  shade 
Of  goods  that  she  has  seen  somewhere ; 

A  certain  outre  width  of  braid  — 
Something  exceeding  hard  to  get, 
But  that  she  has  to  have  or  fret. 

So,  though  the  sun  shine  warm  for  her, 
And  though  the  day  be  bright  for  her, 

The  world  holds  aye  a  storm  for  her, 
And  nothing  e'er  is  right  for  her. 

Another  says :     "  I  must  decide 

Which  are  life's  big  things,  which  the  small. 
If  naught  of  cogent  harm  betide 

My  loved  ones,  which  are  best  of  all 
That  I  possess ;  if  I  can  keep 

My  wonted  health  and  know  no  lack 
Of  needful  clothing,  food  and  sleep, 

!Nb  trifles  that  bestrew  my  track 
Can  trouble  me ;  and  I  shall  praise 
The  Giver  of  my  glorious  days." 


171 


So  though  the  small  things  oft  go  wrong, 
The  larger  joys  of  life  are  hers ; 

Her  lips  are  aye  attuned  to  song, 

And  she  keeps  sweet,  whate'er  occurs. 


172 


PKECEDENT 

T  AM  the  coward's  fortress  and  his  friend. 
•*•     When  his  poor  courage  trickles  to  an  end 
He  pleads  with  me  to  guide  his  faltering  feet  — 
He  finds  my  ready  consolation  sweet. 
That  of ttimes  I  am  wrong  is  naught  to  him  — 
He  clings  to  me  with  desperation  grim. 

Each  herd  of  elephants  selects  one  wise 
Old  pachyderm  to  go  ahead,  where  lies 
The  soft  morass.     They  follow  in  his  spoor. 
The  tracks  grow  deeper.     Ere  they've  crossed  the 

moor 

The  hindermost  bogs  down  because  he  feared 
To  tread  the  ground  the  others'  feet  had  cleared. 

And  I  am  that  —  the  deep  spoor  in  the  mire; 
Cold  ashes  in  the  place  where  once  was  fire 
O'er  which  the  hidebound  dotard  chafes  his  palms. 
I  am  the  soother  of  the  weakling's  qualms. 
Yet  this  remember:     None  has  served  mankind 
Who  did  not  leave  my  pleasing  self  behind. 


173 


WIFEY'S  WAY 

has  never  seen  him  wildly,  uncontrollably 
joy-jagged 
When  the  two  of  them  went  calling  or  to  spend 

the  evening  out. 
She  has  seldom  seen  him  looking  otherwise  than 

slightly  fagged  — 
He's  a  business  man  beginning  to  grow  bald  and 

rather  stout. 
Not   unhappy  —  just   a   typical    American,    you 

know, 
With  a  solemn  look  that  tells  you  he  has  worries 

of  his  own. 
He's  a  drudge,  and  rather  likes  it,  likes  to  watch 

his  business  grow, 
But  she's  sure  he's  out  to  frivol  when  he  goes 

somewhere  alone! 

She  has  never  seen  a  symptom  indicating  giddi- 
ness 

As  a  quality  of  hubby's ;  he's  a  glutton  for  his  toil. 

He's  as  steady  as  old  Dobbin,  in  his  food  and  in 
his  dress, 

And  his  wildest  dissipation  is  to  scheme  and  plan 
and  moil. 

Though  she  knows  it  —  yes,  and  trusts  him  in  a 
good  and  wifely  way, 

Though  she  often  faults  him  grimly  for  a  dull,  un- 
social drone, 

174 


Yet  she  has  a  sort  of  feeling  that  sometimes  he's 

madly  gay, 
And  she's  sure  he's  raising  hades  when  he  goes 

away  alone. 


175 


LIFE'S  SMELTEK 

LO,  here  are  the  ricks  of  red,  red  dust. 
Lo,  there  are  the  cairns  of  coke. 
The  one  is  as  dead  as  a  day  long  fled, 

One  cold  as  the  berg's  fog-smoke. 
(For  you  can't  descry  with  a  glance  of  the  eye, 

And  you  can't  discern  by  the  feel, 
The  ultimate  worth  of  the  things  of  earth 
When  Fate  shall  have  turned  her  wheel.) 

There's  razor-edge  steel  in  the  red,  red  dust. 

There  is  hell's  own  heat  in  the  coke  — 
Though  some  be  loss  and  some  be  dross 

And  some  go  away  in  smoke. 
(No,  you  can't  descry  with  the  physical  eye, 

Nor  guess  from  the  physical  feel, 
The  potential  worth  of  the  things  of  earth 

When  Fate  shall  have  whirled  her  wheel.) 

Now  you  —  let's  say  —  are  the  red,  red  dust ; 

And  I  —  let's  play  —  am  the  coke. 
We  may  useless  seem  as  we  drift  and  dream, 

With  meaningless  wail  and  croak. 
But  the  wheel  of  Fate  turns  soon  or  late, 

And  we  meet  in  the  forging  fire, 
Which  will  show,  at  last,  why  our  lots  were  cast 

So  far  from  our  heart's  desire. 


176 


EICE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY 

"D  ICE  on  the  day-coach  platform  —  poor  folks 

•••  ^       are  wed  to-day ! 

Taking  their  trip  to  somewhere,  thirty  odd  miles 

away! 
She  in  her  dove-tint  poplin,  he  with  his  neck  all 

shaved  — 
Wondering,  both  a-tremble,  how  such  a  crowd  they 

braved ! 

Many  as  twenty  people,  all  at  the  house  at  once! 
She  was  a-thrill,  bride-fashion,  he  felt  a  fearful 

dunce. 
Now  they're  away  —  don't  watch  'em,  drummer- 

inclined-to-tease ! 
Rice  on  the  day-coach  platform  —  God  will  be 

good  to  these. 

Rice  on  the  day-coach  platform  —  sleeping  car  fare 

would  take 
All  that  the  happy  bridegroom  in  half  of  a  week 

could  make. 
Trip  to  his  aunt's  in  Hayville,  home  in  a  day  or 

two  — 
Bride  with  the  trip  to  Europe,  she  is  as  glad  as 

you! 
Less  than  she  wants  ?     Who  hasn't !     Less  than  a 

girl  deserves? 
Not  if  the  lad  be  loyal;  not  if  their  love  ne'er 

swerves. 

177 


Humble  her  lot  since  childhood,  simple  the  joys 

she's  known  — 
Bice  on  a  day-coach  platform,  queen  on  a  humble 

throne ! 

Eice  on  a  day-coach  platform  — "  couple  of  rubes," 

you  say  ? 
Peace!     For  Somebody's  Daughter  emptied  two 

hearts  to-day; 
Somebody's  son  did  likewise.     Funny  ?     I  cannot 

see 
Just  where  the  jest  is,  brother  —  stupid,  of  course, 

in  me. 
Eice  on  a  day-coach  platform  brings  to  the  waiting 

world 
More  than  the  same  white  kernels  at  Pullmans 

palatial  hurled. 
Watch  the  old  grandma  smiling  —  kindly  old  eyes 

a-blur  — 
Eice  on  a  day-coach  platform  started  her  Life  for 

her! 


178 


THE  'LOWANCE 

,  missus,  if  you  wouldn't  mind,  I'd  like 
a  piece  o'  cake. 
We're  out  of  it  at  our  house  an'  dono  when  we'll 

bake. 
An'  if  you  give  me  any  bread,  put  plenty  butter 

on  — 
Mine's  been  so  thin-spread  lately  that  I'm  feelin' 

kindo'  gone. 
Here  comes  my  brother  —  would  you  mind  a-givin' 

some  t'  him? 
For  mother's  on  a  'lowance  an*  we're  livin'  sorto' 

slim. 

Some  speaker  down  to  mother's  club  said  every 

wife  should  be 

A  independent  person,  as  it  were,  financialee. 
She  "ought  to  have  her  'lowance  every  week  an' 

plan  ahead 
What  she  would  spend  an'  what  she'd  save,"  that's 

what  that  woman  said. 
When  mother  told  my  pa,  he  laughed  an'  said: 

"  I  gotcha,  dear. 
It's  takin'   all  that  I  can  grab  —  let's  see  how 

much  you'll  clear." 

Since  then  —  you  see  this  dress  o'  mine?     I've 

wore  it  all  this  week. 
Ma  says :     "  We've  got  a  bad  disease  —  it's  name 

is  money-leak." 

179 


She  drives  us  from  th'  telephone  we  used  to  use 

so  much, 
ATI'  pa  says  ma  is  gettin'  "  nearly  close  enough  t' 

touch." 
So  please,  ma'am,  if  you  wouldn't  mind,  feed  me 

an'  Brother  Jim  — 
Ma's  workin'  on  a  'lowance  an'  we're  livin'  kindo' 

slim. 


180 


STRAWBERRY  MOUNTAINS 

OH!     A  wonderful  range  are  the  Strawberry 
Hills 

With  their  snow-caps  of  sugar  and  cream! 
With  the  Valley  of  China  where  sluggishly  spills 

The  yellow  and  succulent  stream! 
'Tis  a  marvelous  sight  that  I  mean  to  take  in 

In  the  earnestest  sense  of  the  word. 
In  the  lives  where  these  Strawberry  Hills  have  not 

been, 
Very  little  of  note  has  occurred. 

What  a  pleasure  to  browse  o'er  the  Strawberry 

Hills 

Ankle-deep  in  the  sugary  drift, 
And  to  wade  through  the  deeps  of  the  broad, 

creamy  rills 

Over  many  a  crevasse  and  rift ! 
And  the  red  and  the  white  and  the  cream  of  it  all 

Make  a  sight  one  can  never  forget  — 
Oh !     The  Strawberry  cliffs  with  their  summits  so 

ten 

Are  the  finest  sierras  found  yet ! 

'Tis  in  June  that  we  clamber  the  Strawberry  Hills 
And  feed  on  their  snow-crusted  slopes ; 

'Tis  a  prospect  that  makes  us  forget  all  our  ills 
And  live  on  our  dreams  and  our  hopes. 

181 


We  can  wait  all  the  year  with  the  patience  of  Job 
For  the  time  of  all  times  to  come  'round 

When  the  Strawberry  Hills  with  their  snow-sugar 

robe 
In  Chinadish  vale  shall  be  found. 


182 


THE  STAIR-STEP  CHILDREN 

MY  sister  Annie's  five  years  old,  I'm  seven, 
Fred  is  nine. 
I  come  to  Freddie's  shoulder,  little  Annie  comes 

to  mine. 
We  look  like  human  stairsteps  when  they  stand  us 

in  a  row, 

For  visitors  at  our  house  have  always  told  us  so. 
I  often  wonder  how  'twould  seem  if  some  one  tried 

to  walk 

From  Annie's  head  to  mine  an'  his,  as  all  those 
people  talk! 

One    night    along    near    Christmas    time,    when 

Annie'd  left  her  bed 
An*  come  to  me  where  I'd  been  put  along  with 

brother  Fred, 
Our  parents  tiptoed  up  to  see  if  we  were  safe 

asleep ; 
An*  I  nudged  Fred  and  Ann  to  see  how  still  we  all 

could  keep. 
They  stood  beside  an'  whispered,  with  their  arms 

around  each  other  — 
I  peeked  at  them  between  my  lids,  an'  Annie  did, 

an'  brother. 

JTwas    father    murmured:     "Little    steps,    oh, 

whither  do  you  lead  ?  " 
An'  mother  softly  answered  back :     "  To  heaven, 

says  my  creed." 

183 


"  A   golden   causeway,"   father   said.     "  They've 

drawn  us  nigh  each  other  — 
Two  lovely  girls  and  one,  thank  God,  a  husky  elder 

brother." 
An'  then  we  heard  our  mother  say,  in  laugh-and- 

tear-mixed  tone : 
"  '  Step  children,'  yet  we'll  Christmas  them  as  if 

they  were  our  own." 


184 


THE  WISE  MAN 

T  TE  knew  —  and  kept  as  still  with  it, 
•*•  -^  And  had  his  quiet  will  with  it, 
As  though  it  were  a  secret  craved 
By  every  nation  that  has  braved 
Earth's  changing  moods  —  he  slyly  knew 
"Where  bloomed  the  earliest  violet  blue; 
And  where  the  first  spring  beauty  raised 
Her  pink-streaked  face  to  God,  and  praised 
Him  for  His  goodness;  knew  as  well 
Where  first  the  wind-flower  decked  the  dell. 

He  knew,  precisely  to  the  day, 

When  first  the  raucous-noted  jay 

Would  flirt  his  tail  and  toss  his  cap 

And  dare  the  squirrel  to  a  scrap. 

And  robins  —  why  he  was  as  sure 

When  they  would  make  their  northward  tour 

As  anything  on  earth  could  be, 

And  yet,  despite  his  knowledge,  he 

Compiled  no  books  nor  wrote  long  screeds 

About  his  wilder  comrades'  deeds. 

I  asked  him  once  just  why  he  stayed 
So  still  about  it ;  and  he  made 
This  answer :     "  I  have  no  desire 
To  prattle  of  the  burgeoning  briar 
And  of  the  furred  and  feathered  folk 
Who  chirp  or  chatter,  scream  or  croak. 
185 


They  are  my  friends  —  their  confidence 
I  must  respect,  or  give  offense. 
Besides,"  he  quaintly  smiled,  "  you  see 
They  never,  never  tell  on  me !  " 


186 


"  IT  DIDN'T  HUKT  " 

< « TT  didn't  hurt !  "  I  hear  my  baby  call. 

•••  By  this  I  know  the  lad  has  had  a  fall. 
Grievous  must  be  the  bruise  ere  he  admit 
That  he  has  suffered  ache  or  pain  from  it. 

"  It  didn't  hurt !  "     The  cry  comes  oft  before 
His  small,  o'erbalanced  body  strikes  the  floor  — 
A  prophecy  defiant  to  the  fates 
That  trip  pedestrian  novitiates. 

"  It  didn't  hurt !  "     If  thus  he  march  through  life, 

Forswearing  all  defeat  in  every  strife 

That  rises  to  retard  his  pilgrim  way, 

God  bless  the  lad !     He'll  be  a  Man  some  day ! 


187 


"WORKING  TOO  HARD" 

T  KNOW  of  no  task  that  is  softer  than  this  — 
•*•      ( It's  easier,  even,  than  "  stealing  "  a  kiss 
From  a  maid  who  has  left  it  exposed,  in  the  hope 
Some  thief  would  go  by  —  am  I  wrong  in  my 

dope  ?) 
Just  to  hail  some  poor  chap  who  a  task  wouldn't 

touch 
And  make  him  believe  he  is  working  too  much ! 

If  half  of  the  people  we  diagnose  thus 
Were  to  get  out  and  really  kick  up  a  fuss 
With  half  of  the  work  they  could  do,  which  is  twice 
What  most  of  us  do,  why  the  world  in  a  trice 
Would  lose  half  the  troubles  with  which  it  is 

marred  — 
There's  nobody  living  that's  working  too  hard! 


188 


SOMETIMES  at  night  they  leave  the  lad  with 
me, 

When  I  must  "  bone  "  with  civics,  trig,  or  Greek. 
Then,  though  he's  safe  asleep  and  I  am  free, 
There's  something  yet  unnamed  that  makes  me 

sneak 
Into  his  bedroom  and  switch  on  the  light 

And  turn  the  pillow's  cool  side  to  his  face, 

And  tuck  the  covers  'round  his  neck  just  right, 

Then  sigh  and  tiptoe  gently  from  the  place. 

When  they  come  home,  I  do  not  tell  them  this ; 

But  feign  a  vast  and  bored  indifference. 
For  worlds  I  would  not  own  the  poignant  bliss 

I  find  in  some  new,  fine  protective  sense. 
It  is  too  sweet  for  me  to  babble  of 

Or  to  indulge  it  where  it  might  be  seen. 
But  something  whispers  this  is  parent-love 

In  its  first  stirrings ;  and  it  keeps  me  clean. 


189 


GOING  A  PIECE 

ALWAYS,  when  I  went  away  — 
Were  it  night  or  were  it  day  — 
You  would  "  go  a  piece  "  with  me 
To  the  corner  maple-tree ; 
Or,  if  I  were  going  far, 
You  would  see  me  to  the  street 
Where  I'd  catch  my  depot  car. 
You  have  never  known  how  sweet, 
Till  I  hurried  home  again, 
Did  this  memory  remain! 

Through  the  travel  loneliness 

Life  was  never  pure  distress ; 

Never  did  my  cup  seem  all 

Pilled  with  wormwood  and  with  gall. 

No,  for  everywhere  I  went  — 

Homesick  ever,  as  you  know  — 

Pining  was  with  loving  blent. 

For  it  comforted  me  so, 

When  my  heart  looked  back,  to  see 

You  had  "  gone  a  piece  "  with  me ! 

When  my  last  long  trip  I  take  — 
Lagging,  for  my  loved-ones'  sake  — 
Faring  forth  into  the  murk, 
All  the  phantom  shapes  that  lurk 
In  the  darkness  round  my  way 
.Will  be  terrorless  if  I 
190 


(When  the  others  come  to  say 

Through  their  transient  tears,  "  Good-by ") 

In  that  twilight  hour,  may  be 

Sure  you'll  "  go  a  piece  "  with  me ! 


191 


By  Strickland  Gillilan 
INCLUDING  FINNIGIN 

A  book  containing  eighty  poems  by  the 
popular  author  of  this  volume.  It  in- 
cludes "Finnigin  to  Flannigan,"  "The 
Cry  of  the  Alien, "  "Me  an'  Pap  an' 
Mother,"  and  other  famous  poems. 

There  is  something  to  hold  the  thought 
or  touch  the  heart  on  every  page  while  the 
verses  swing  between  laughter  and  tears. 
In  this  book  the  human  note  rings  clear 
and  true  and  readers  find  something  pleas- 
ing for  every  mood. 

"Worth  reading  over  and  over.  Humanity  held  up 
to  nature. —  Boston  Globe. 

A  book  that  will  draw  a  smile  from  every  reader 
and  tears  from  most. —  The  Christian  Advocate. 

It  is  just  as  funny  as  any  verses  written. —  Chicago 
Daily  News. 

There  is  occasion  for  a  smile,  a  tear  or  a  big  laugh 
on  every  page,  according  to  how  you  happen  to  feel. 
—  New  York  Press. 

This  book  is  full  of  laughter,  tears,  intense  sym- 
pathy, tenderness  and  commonsense. —  Christian  En- 
deavor World. 


Attractive  cover.     Cloth,  12mo. 

Price,  $1.00 
Forbes  &  Company,  Publishers,  Chicago 


A    000  111  411     5 


